Page 136 of Snowbound Threat

Tears sting in the corners of my eyes, and I pause in front of the mirror to get the first look at my bruised throat.

Nasty purple finger marks mar my skin.

I gently touch them, the weight of the last few hours slamming down onto me like waves hammering against a shoreline.

Years ago, I would have let them drown me. Butnottonight. Tonight, I bow my head and plant both palms on either side of the sink.

“But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in You. I praise God for what He has promised. I trust in God, so why should I be afraid?” My voice catches, and a tear rolls down my cheek. “What can mere mortals do to me?” As I whisper the words from Psalm 56, I try to separate the fear from my heart and shove it aside.

I’m alive.

He did not end my life.

But he did prove that there is more to this than I thought, which means we now have another lead to follow.

And in a ten-year-old case like this, I imagine that’s a good thing.

“This is delicious,” I comment, then take another bite of my barbacoa taco. “Like, seriously delicious.”

Shawn smiles and takes a drink from his glass of water. “I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s not often I eat something that didn’t come in Styrofoam or plastic.”

Shawn visibly winces.

“I take it you’re not big on takeout?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Any particular reason?” I question when he doesn’t elaborate.

“We didn’t eat it growing up, and after about a year of eating it non-stop when I was first out on my own, I decided that I could make a better meal faster if I just planned.”

“So now you’re a meal planner.”

He shrugs. “It’s easier, and I’m not pumping my body full of the garbage that’s in most takeout.”

“Fair enough. Well, it’s been about a year of me eating nothing but takeout, so this is much appreciated.”

“You’re not big on cooking?”

“I used to be. Back when Paul and I first got married. I loved surprising him with a home-cooked meal whenever he came back home after a trip.” I pause a moment, the grief hitting me out of nowhere as it usually does. “After he died, I guess I lost thedesire to cook. There wasn’t anyone there to eat it anymore.” Not appreciating the heaviness of this conversation, I take another bite of food.

“I’m sorry about that. I imagine losing him was rough.”

“It was.”

“I remember seeing the accident,” he tells me. “It was all over the local news. I didn’t know who he was back then, obviously, but I do remember them talking about it.”

Grief tightens my chest again. “That’s, uh, actually how I found out he’d died.”

“What?” His tone is sharp—surprised. Which is the exact expression I see on his face when I glance up to look at him.

“We lived in Boston, so I guess, while the local police were tracking me down to deliver the news, the media decided they didn’t want to wait. I got a phone call from a friend of mine who’d seen it on the news. She and her husband lived here in Seattle at the time, so Paul would stay with them whenever he was overnight.”

“That’s horrible, Beckett. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t too great.” I take a deep breath, that moment branded into my mind. “I still remember exactly what I was wearing and where I was when I got that call. It didn’t feel real until I’d flown out to identify his body. Even though I kept calling his phone and he didn’t answer.”