Chapter Six Delaney

Chapter Six

Delaney

Now: Friday, 12:25 p.m.

We descend en masse to a ski room in the basement. It's a narrow, cluttered space with racks of skis on the wall, cubbyholes along the baseboards for wet boots, and sliding doors at the far end that open up right out onto the powder. A mud room with a Scandinavian-hunting-cabin vibe—maybe at one point it was minimalist and sleek, but it's half junk room now. Christmas lights spill down a tower of plastic storage bins, next to which a heavy-duty shovel and a snowblower lean.

The rest of the winter-sport clutter goes back decades, like a tour through eras of shifting ski fashion. A scuffed pair of neon-yellow plastic boots that screams nineties pokes out from under the slatted bench, where I plop down to snap into a pair of skis. Nearby, Eden hisses in socked feet at the chilled slate-tile floor, a sharp contrast with the premium heated hardwood everywhere else in the house.

Everyone's here except Piper. The odd one out. Silva has her doing inventory on all our food supplies, checking them against her planned menus. Mind-numbing busywork.

But forget her—I'm ready to ski.

I glide over the packed snow, and the frigid air sears my throat, the kind of cold burn that hurts so bad, it's good. I may have been skiing since I was three, but it feels like the first time, nature a revelation to my city senses. I'm worlds away from Los Angeles, yet feel at home.

Almost.

"Lose yourself to the rhythm!" Part motivational speaker and part drill sergeant, Silva's voice cuts through the wintry solitude. She's been shouting insipid inspirational sayings for the past hour. "Push your limits, even when it hurts! It's the hard things that show us who we are!"

Wyatt makes a lewd comment on other revealing, hard things.

I pick up my pace to break free of her exultations, wind slicing into my cheeks like microscopic needles. It puts me ahead of the pack, where it's easier to pretend that I'm alone in the wilderness, that this mountain belongs to me. The overcast sky has grown a deeper gray since we started. It'll snow later.

"Find a good place to stop!" Our chaperone's voice rings from behind. "We should turn around to make it back before sunset."

There's a shush-shush behind me, then Camille's unmistakable triumphant cackle. She cuts the snow at a severe angle, showering me in powder.

"Ugh." I shudder as the freezing wet sprays over my boots. Her eyes sparkle murderously.

"Bet you can't beat me!" she hollers as she passes me, nodding toward a nearby hill.

"Oh, it's on!" I shout back, pumping my legs and arms harder, but just as I'm about to gain ground, Wyatt blurs past me with a caterwauling "Wahoooooo!"

No, there is no way I will let them beat me.

We go hard for a minute, but I'm always a stride behind, any ground gained with my long legs lost to Camille's incredible power, Wyatt's stamina. And then it's over. I practically run into the pair of them, stopped at the crest of a hill overlooking a deep valley.

"I won!" Camille grins, panting, then does a victory shimmy in her skis.

"I didn't know we were racing," I bite back, still in disbelief at my loss.

"I'm just out of practice," Wyatt says, twitching at his second-place finish.

"You're both sore losers." Cam sticks out her tongue.

My chest heaves as I catch my breath and compose myself. It's only a stupid race, and Camille didn't play fair. She never does.

I turn with my brightest smile, expecting Liam to be hot on my heels. He's almost as competitive as I am. But Silva, Eden, and Declan are next to join the group. Finally Liam crests the hill…with Willa. She pitches forward, nearly losing her balance. Liam extends his arm, catching her a moment before disaster. The flush in Willa's cheeks matches the flame of her hair.

"How about a do-over? Let's race back!" I say with gritted teeth. This time I'm in control. Camille's eyes spark, and Declan and Wyatt place side bets on who will tag the ski-room door first.

"Liam?" I call back to him. "You in? You must be itching to really ski."

I look at Willa as I say it. Her doe eyes radiate hurt, but Liam lets go of her hold and skis over to me.

"I'd never miss a chance to leave Declan in the dust!" His grin is wide, and he flashes Declan mocking menace.

"Are we ready, then?" Eden calls impatiently. "Count us down, Silva!"

And, remarkably, she does.

We take off like pistons over the snow.

It's an even heat for the first twenty minutes, until Declan hits a small hill with too much speed; coming down, he careens off course, losing time he'll never make up. Eden plays dirty at first—zigzagging at speed across our lines, almost clipping others' skis—so we waste energy on additional vigilance. But soon she loses stamina, her antics costing her. Wyatt flags too, having gone too hard trying to win the sprint on the way out.

Soon it's me, Camille, and Liam in the lead. We're flying, making amazing time—it may have taken an hour to ski out at a leisurely pace, but we'll halve the time home at this clip.

With the chalet in sight, Camille's competitive drive kicks in full force. Now she's the one bursting with speed; at one point I feel the whip of wind across my right cheek from her wake.

My vision blurs, and I draw on hidden reserves to really push myself for the final stretch. My last shot at winning: I have to catch up to Camille, and then beat her. I shoot ahead of Liam, a human missile with her target in sight.

The house is so close now I can make out individual pieces of furniture peeking through the windows. Camille's within reach too; I'm hot on her heels, near enough to read the black brand name that crawls up the back of her baby-pink boot.

It takes every ounce of strength and concentration I have, but somehow I force my legs to work harder, to grasp at a pace that gains me pivotal ground. And then I'm doing it! Gliding past Camille, inch by inch. Then I'm a stride ahead. I can taste my win.

"Not so fast, Delaney!" Camille taunts, and I feel her gaining on me, her skis dangerously close. "I'm. Faster!" she grunts as she glides past.

In a split second I'm choking on snow. It's too fast for me to process as anything other than torque and pain: my skis buckling, my limbs akimbo, and then stillness and biting cold. Wet snow invades my jacket collar, boots.

"Oh my god, Delaney!" Camille cries out, sliding to a hard stop several yards away. She backtracks to my side. "Are you okay? I heard you scream."

I search her face, try to parse whether she really means it. Camille can be so hard to read. I've seen her pretend to care about a fallen teammate many times in the past, and often when she was the one who screwed them up.

Liam skis up, drops his poles to the ground, and kneels next to me. "Are you hurt? What happened?" He draws me into a hug, then pulls back to check me over for injuries.

"I don't know." My lip wobbles. Liam kisses my forehead, and I lean into his touch, let him tend to me. "It felt like something tripped me. Got tangled in my ski."

Camille narrows her eyes at me.

"Maybe there was a branch," I'm quick to say. But the idea is out there now.

"Come on, let's get you up," Liam says, helping me to my feet. I brush slush from my thighs, and Liam retrieves an errant ski. I went down so hard it was ripped from my boot.

I shiver, wet and cold. And then a new brand of cold runs up my spine. The kind that's a sixth sense, a bad feeling. We're being watched.

I whip around, eyes raking the trees that dot the landscape, then the house. That's when I see it: a dark figure in one of the windows on the second floor. Staring. I squint, drawing my hand over my forehead like a visor to make it out.

Piper.

She just…watches. Totally still. Assessing.

She saw everything.

"Oh my god, what is that freak doing?" Camille's noticed her too. "Has she been watching us this whole time?"

"How Gothic," I say, but the reference flies over Camille's head. Liam chuckles, though. He wanted us to go on the Gothics he slaps the side of the house and lets out a triumphant whoop. I have a hard time joining in the celebration.

A sense of dread follows me as we make our way inside. My fall, Piper watching us…something's off.

"Eden, Willa, and Liam, get changed and head to the kitchen for dinner prep; everyone else take the hour for quiet reflection," Silva announces as we trudge up to the ground floor, our skis, jackets, and boots left behind to dry. Piper's lurking in the living room.

"Oh good, Piper," Silva greets her. "Did you get the charcuterie board ready like I asked?"

Piper grunts something akin to yes. Sure enough, a heaping meat, cheese, and fruit plate sits on the coffee table, but it's so sloppy there's no way the spread took her two hours to put together.

I wait until the others have gone upstairs to change, and Silva absconds with several cheddar slices to her basement suite. Piper, already cozy in jeans and a hoodie, sits cross-legged in an armchair, book in hand. Crooked House, the title reads.

The black cat from earlier is circling, nose twitching up toward the tempting spread. I scratch him behind the ears before shooing him off.

"Piper, hey." I approach, unsure of how to put it. It's an odd question, and Piper's body language screams please don't talk to me. But I have to know.

"I saw you at the window," I say, deciding on a straightforwardapproach. "Did you see what happened out there? When I was skiing?"

Eyes still on the page, and with deliberate slowness, she looks askance up at me. Purses her lips. And stonewalls me.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

And with that she's back to her book, like I'm not even here.

Piper's lying. And I'm afraid of what that might mean for this weekend.