Chapter 1

Boone's glove came down on my wrist like a deadbolt. The plow cab smelled of diesel, chew, and wet wool. Ice pellets ticked the windshield. My belly pressed the gearshift. He leaned through the open driver's door, cap low, eyes red.

"You're going to tell them you were driving," he said. "That night. The bus. You were behind the wheel."

I knew what night. Two winters ago, the school bus off Notch Road. Earlene Duquette dead. Seven kids in the snow. Boone had come home with a cracked headlight and a story about black ice. I had believed him for a year. Then I stopped.

"You're insane," I said. "I was seven months pregnant. I was in the trailer."

"You were on the plow." He said it like he was reading a script. "Marnie will back me. She already fixed the log."

"She wouldn't."

"She will." He jerked my wrist against the gearshift. "Or I'll say you were drunk. I'll say you took the plow while I was asleep. They'll take that baby before it draws a second breath."

The baby kicked. I bit the inside of my cheek. I had no keys. No phone signal. Eight miles of private logging road between me and Route 114. Boone had the plow, the fuel, the camp, and every favor he'd ever called in.

The CB crackled. Not Marnie's voice. Boone's. Recorded. "I cut the line." The words filled the cab like a second person.

Boone's face went slack. He looked at the dash, at the mic swinging. The channel display glowed DISPATCH.

My left hand was already under my coat. The handheld was small, black, half-charged. I'd hidden it in the lining three weeks ago, after Boone put his fist through the kitchen wall. I pressed the transmit button with my thumb. The red LED glowed through the fabric.

"You hear that?" I whispered, not to him. "Marnie, play it all."

Static. A click. Marnie's voice, small and tight: "Tessa? Is that you?"

Boone's grip tightened. "Who you talking to?"

"My water," I lied. I sucked a breath and bent over my belly. "Something's wrong."

He hesitated. He always hesitated when the baby was mentioned. Not out of love. Out of ownership. That baby was his proof, his name, his future. He let go of my wrist and grabbed the main CB.

"You're taking the blame for that bus," he said. "You hear me? You were driving. I was in the office."

The radio gave another crackle. Boone's recorded voice again, lower, laughing: "Brake line was cleaner than a gutted deer."

Boone ripped the CB from the dash. Sparks snapped. The coiled mic jerked free and hit my knee. He threw the radio against the floor, then reached under the dash and yanked the fuse. He held it up like a tooth he'd pulled.

"Open channel's dead," he said. "Now you're dead too, if you don't do what I say."

My thumb stayed on the handheld. The red light stayed on. I slid my hand deeper into my coat, pressing the device against my ribs.

Through the windshield, beyond the amber beacon, Cody stood by the snowmobile. Seventeen years old, skinny as a fence post, Boone's nephew and shadow. Snow crusted his shoulders. He was looking at the cab.

Then the snowmobile speaker crackled. Marnie's voice, louder than it should have been: "Cody, answer me."

Boone froze. His head turned toward the open door. Cody took one step toward the plow.

"Cody," Marnie said again. "Step away from the plow."

Boone's jaw worked. He shoved the fuse into his coverall pocket and stepped down from the cab. The door slammed. The cold rushed in. I heard him crunch across the ice toward Cody.

I kept the handheld pressed to my ribs. Marnie's voice ticked in my ear. "Tessa, can you hear me? Don't answer if he's there. Key twice if you can hear me."

I keyed twice. The red light blinked against my coat.

"Thank God," she whispered. "I have the logger. I have the whole loop. But you have to understand-"

Boone shouted Cody's name. The snowmobile engine coughed. I couldn't see them through the frost. I could only hear.

"Understand what?" I breathed.

Marnie didn't answer. The channel went quiet except for static. Outside, Boone's boots stopped. Then started again. Coming back.

I had one live radio, one scared dispatcher, and a husband who had just remembered I was still in his cab.