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“Fuck,” I muttered, my teeth chattering so hard I nearly bit my tongue.

Getting up the steep bank was a special kind of hell, since my heavy boots were basically useless in the slippery mud. When I finally made it onto the bridge, my car was nowhere to be seen. The only sign I hadn’t imagined the whole thing was the dark skid marks on the tarmac where I’d slammed on the brakes. I could almost hear the screech of tires in my head, but everything after that was just… gone.

I stood there for a few minutes, trying to keep my thoughts from spinning out of control. The cold was getting worse by the second. I needed to keep moving or freeze, so I picked the direction I thought would take me into the city and started walking, my boots making obscene squelching noises with every step.

It took almost half an hour of trudging along before my addled brain remembered phones existed. Excited by the prospect of rescue, I searched my pockets, only to find them empty. No phone, no wallet, no keys, not even my watch. Without them, I had no way of telling where I was or how long I’d been out there in the water.

The whole situation made no sense. Why would anyone steal someone’s belongings and a wrecked car, but leave the unconscious owner lying in a stream? I mean, the car wasn’t worth what I paid for it when I bought it. And I’d driven along this road hundreds of times, so what made this time different? I might not be the world’s best driver, but something about all this felt wrong. Really fucking wrong.

My clothes and hair were freezing solid despite the wet snowflakes that kept landing on me. I trudged along for what felt like an hour, though it could have been minutes for all I knew. With every step, the snow crunched beneath me, growing deeper and more treacherous by the minute, and I was starting to lose feeling in my toes. All I could do was keep going and hope to hell that some total idiot was out driving in these conditions and would find me before I froze to death.

I’d almost given up hope when I spotted two yellow lights in the distance. Eyes in the dark, getting steadily bigger. Not wanting to risk being missed, I planted myself in the middle of the road and waved my arms around like a maniac. I probably seemed more than a little crazy, but all I cared about was getting out of the cold.

A rusty Citroën that might have been dark blue in betterlight pulled over, its interior lights giving me my first proper look at another human being since I’d woken up. The driver was middle-aged, going grey at the temples. His wife was quite a bit younger, which probably explained why he’d stopped at all.

“What the hell are you doing in the middle of the road, at this time of night?” he demanded, winding down his window.

“I’m sorry, I crashed my car, and I woke up and—” My teeth were chattering so hard I could barely get the words out.

“For goodness’ sake, Martin, look at the state of the poor girl. Clearly something’s happened!” The woman turned to me with the kind of concern usually reserved for small children. “Get in the car, darling. We’ll get you to a hospital or a police station or—”

“Could you drop me off at the police station?” I asked, as politely as I could manage while my body convulsed with shivers.

“Get in,” Martin said with a sigh, and the door lock clicked. I clambered with some difficulty into the back seat, grateful for the stuffy warmth of the car. I couldn’t feel my hands anymore.

“What happened to you, darling?” The woman leaned around to look at me curiously.

“It must have been a few miles back, I don’t remember…” I said. My brain still felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. “I crashed my car, I think, on the bridge. But my car’s gone.” The words sounded ridiculous even to me.

“What do you mean, gone?” Martin asked gruffly. “How can you crash a missing car?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, trying and failing to shrug. “I woke up and… I don’t know.”

“Let’s get her to the police station. They’ll sort it all out.” The woman gave her husband a look that brooked no argument. I caught fragments of their whispered conversation as I drifted in and out of consciousness in the back seat. What were the odds, I wondered hazily, that the first car to come along would actually stop to help? Something about that thought nagged at me, but I couldn’t quite grasp why.

Minutes or hours later, we pulled up outside the drab, concrete building that was the central police station. Wide awake now, I practically leapt out of the car before it had even properly stopped, shouting my thanks over my shoulder as I ran up the steps to the entrance.

Looking back, the blue car sped off, straight through a red light. They were clearly glad to be rid of me, and I couldn’t blame them. But as soon as they were out of sight, I strode away from the station. I’d managed to stay off local law enforcement’s radar until now – which I was proud of, considering my line of work. And with no criminal or medical record to speak of – thanks to Tom and Jon’s efforts – I intended to keep it that way. I needed to get home and work out what the hell had happened. Most of all, I wanted to be warm again.

Snow was still falling as I made my way through the shopping district. The clock at the tram stop showed nine – earlier than I’d thought. The winter sunset and heavy cloud made it feel much later. My clothes were still too damp to be of any real protection against the cold, and combined with my hurt shoulder from the fight in the park – which I was still trying toavoid thinking about – I was feeling thoroughly sorry for myself. All I wanted was to get back to the comfort of my bed and sleep for a week. I hopped on the first tram that came, making myself seem as small and unnoticeable as possible to avoid the attention of the conductor taking fares.

Walking up the steep hill home, I tried to make sense of the day’s – and night’s – events. I’d thought I was getting used to strange occurrences, but none of it made any sense. The road had been deserted when I crashed. Who would come across an unconscious person and decide to steal their damaged car?

I was still puzzling over the possibilities as I climbed the steps to my front door, digging into my pocket for keys that I already knew weren’t there. The living room light was on, but when I stretched precariously across to tap on the bay window, I froze. The house was full of people; and not just anyone, but the strangest group I’d never expected to see in one place.

Tom on the sunken sofa with a dishevelled Adam beside him, arguing with my mother, who sat in my favourite armchair. My dad stood with his arms folded by the fireplace, watching the conversation without showing the slightest interest in what was going on. Across the room, perched against my desk, stood Isabel. Her eyes flicked from Tom to my mother, then to the person standing stiffly behind them both, his face a mask of pain. Nicholas.

My heart filled at the sight of him, but nothing made sense. My first thought was that the French killer must have made a move against my parents, and they’d come here for protection. But that wouldn’t explain Tom and my mother’s hostility, or whyeveryone looked unharmed but devastated.

I strained closer to the window to try to read my mother’s expression, but slipped on the icy step. Through the glass, I saw Nicholas move. Before I could catch myself, he was there, pulling me back against him. We stood on the snowy steps, and I breathed in the enticing scent of earth and pine. Tension I hadn’t registered drained from my muscles. It felt like weeks since I’d seen him.

“Gods, Erin,” he breathed. His voice broke on the second syllable, a half laugh of relief. His arms tightened around me possessively as I drank in his face without understanding what I saw. The sudden beat of his heart against my chest made me shiver, and he pulled away, though his hand found mine immediately. For the briefest moment, his carefully maintained control shattered, his eyes filled with centuries of loss and the terror of almost adding me to the endless tally.

Without speaking, we went inside. The room fell silent. Tom’s fingers gripped the arm of the sofa as he stared, mouth slightly open. My mother’s hand flew to her throat. Even Isabel’s usual composure cracked – she took half a step forward before catching herself.

Nicholas’s hand tightened on mine as we stood in the doorway, his thumb tracing absent patterns on my skin. The cool press of his fingers kept me grounded as the silence stretched, broken only by the soft tick of someone’s watch.

“What’s going on?” My voice was too loud in the quiet.