The Shuddering

the snow as deep as it was, each step was an effort. Her expectation of reaching the highway began to dwindle. Her toes began to burn. She wondered whether this was how it felt to be lost, alone, spiraling toward some inevitable fate. The endless expanse of white, the silence, the solitude were overwhelming. She stifled another cry, twisting to look over her shoulder. The road leading up to the cabin was gone, and she wouldn’t have had any idea which direction she had come from had it not been for her tracks. But it was that path that pushed her forward despite the cold. When Sawyer became worried enough, it would be easy to find her. And that was what she wanted. Despite her anger, she wanted him to see how far she’d stalked away from the house—that distance representing the hurt he’d caused. She wanted to hear him call her name, to follow her into the emptiness, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, a classic black-and-white movie moment. Damn it, April, don’t you know I love you? And then she’d crumple in his arms. All would be forgiven. She’d apologize, beg him to take her back.
    A spark of irritation bit at her heart. He should beg her to take him back. This was his fault. He was the one who had made her suspicious. Narrowing her eyes against the glare of the snow, she pushed onward, defiant. Despite her thick woolen socks, her feet burned inside her boots. Her hands hurt, and she cupped them over her mouth and blew against the thinness of her gloves. Glancing over her shoulder again, she saw movement. A spark of elation warmed her from the inside out. He was coming to get her.
    If she hadn’t seen the shadows shift behind her at that very moment, she would have started back toward the cabin despiteher reluctance. She was starting to freeze, but he was on his way, and she was going to make it as difficult as possible for him to catch up to her. The harder it was for him, the more overjoyed they’d be to be back together.
    She picked up her pace, pushing off trees, throwing her weight forward, making her footfalls swifter. There was a clearing ahead and she pictured it in her head—summertime, an expanse of grass and wildflowers. If they had only waited seven months from now, they could have come to the mountains when it was warm, packed up a picnic lunch and walked to this very clearing, a baby tucked into the crook of April’s arm. Sawyer would have brought his guitar. They would have flown kites and woven dandelions into crowns and done all the hippie bullshit that made April roll her eyes. Yet somehow, standing in the cold, seeing the clearing covered in snow, she yearned for warmth, for bologna sandwiches and lemonade and a semblance of family that, up until then, she had never had. A picnic in the mountains didn’t sound so bad as long as he was by her side. She was tired of being damaged. She was ready to let it all go.
    She turned back toward Sawyer. Despite their differences, she did love him, she wanted to get married, she was glad the baby was his.
    But there was nobody behind her. The shadow she’d seen shifted every now and again was still there, lurking. Was he just watching her, making sure that she didn’t go too far?
    “Sawyer?” She called the name into the silence, nothing but the howl of wind high up above.
    The shadow froze when her voice left her throat.
    “Sawyer,” she repeated. “Please…I’m sorry. That was crazy. I just…this trip has been hard for me. I got overwhelmed.” Her feet were really hurting now. She could hardly feel her toes.
    Her nerves buzzed when the shadow shifted once more, because it wasn’t the same shadow she’d been watching. She swallowed against a wave of anxiety. Sawyer wouldn’t have come out here alone. It was probably Ryan. They had been following her all this time. But why hadn’t she heard them talking? Why had they let her come this far?
    Because it’s not them , she thought.
    Worst-case scenarios spiraled through her head. She had wandered onto someone’s property and the landowner was a psychopath, horror-movie insane. Maybe he lived out in the middle of nowhere because out in the middle of nowhere there wasn’t anyone around to hear the screams. Maybe some maniac had heard her yelling Sawyer’s name, had followed her out here, and was waiting for the perfect time to strike. That was where the blood along the side of the road had come from—some crazy killer ready to slit her throat.
    “Hello?” Barely a