However, after this long stretch of empty road, he began to think he’d left it too far behind. When a snow-dusted wooden structure appeared through the pines, he exhaled with relief. This had to be it. The image on the B&B site had shown a log house nestled in the pines, very picturesque. The reality was a bit more run down, but any shelter was welcome at this point. The flurry of snow on the other side of his windshield was beginning to obscure his vision.

  Devon settled the car into what he hoped was the driveway, turned off the engine and listened. He heard exactly what he’d hoped to hear—nothing. The silence was heavy, an almost physical thing, and it was a balm to his soul.

  The past month had been a nightmare, one he hadn’t been at liberty to share with Fiona due to attorney-client confidentiality. No divorce case was pleasant, especially when there were children involved, but this case had been the worst of his career.

  The wife, Kathy, was a stay-at-home socialite and Devon’s client. The husband, Myron, was a trial lawyer. He’d been abusing her for years but was savvy enough to keep the damage invisible to everyone but the various doctors who’d treated her. He’d even made sure she rotated through the urgent care physicians. Only once had one expressed concern, but Kathy had covered her husband’s misdeeds with lies.

  Devon hadn’t had anything he could use in court. Myron had convinced Kathy he’d not only get custody but punish their three children if she disrupted the status quo, never mind the damage he’d inflict on her. She was terrified of him.

  It wasn’t until a neighbor had witnessed him gut-punch Kathy, watched her fall to the floor, and saw three brutal kicks land in her abdomen that Devon had what he needed to win the suit.

  He threw open the car door. He hoped the beautiful quiet would silence the words that had rung in his mind since. After he’d won full custody for Kathy and had criminal charges brought against Myron, the man had waylaid him on the courthouse steps. There’d been suppressed rage in every taut line of his body. Vitriol, like corrosive acid, dripped from his mouth. Do you know what it’s like to lose a child? No? You’ll find out.

  So Devon took his son and headed for the far reaches of San Bernardino County as soon as he was able. It wasn’t a permanent solution. And, honestly, he didn’t think Myron would follow through with his threats. Domestic abusers didn’t pick on guys their own size, in Devon’s experience. But the tension and the worry had taken their toll, and he needed a break.

  He trudged around the car and opened Caleb’s door. His son’s head lolled to one side, a thin line of drool extending from his mouth to the car seat cover. Devon smiled. How did kids manage to look adorable doing totally non-cute things? “Hey, bud. We’re here.”

  Caleb’s eyes opened, long lashes fluttering for a moment. A look of confusion flashed across his face, followed quickly by recognition, then excitement. “Is there snow?”

  Devon unhooked his straps. “Take a look.”

  Caleb slid from his seat into the white world. His eyes grew wide. “Snow,” he whispered.

  Devon popped the trunk and lifted the bags of groceries he’d brought. “I should get these inside,” he said, but he was talking to himself. Caleb had run up the small embankment toward the house, stumbled over his feet and fallen with a clomp.

  “Snow,” he said again, throwing handfuls of it into the air.

  “You need to get your mittens on,” Devon said. “Snow is cold.” He tromped past his son to the cabin, dropped the bags on the porch, and fished the key out of his pocket.

  The lock clicked, but the front door, adorned with a cheerful Christmas wreath, stuck in place. Devon shoved with his shoulder, almost knocking the wreath off its hook, and the door popped open. The interior smelled musty, and it wasn’t much warmer inside than outside, but it looked okay.

  There was a living room to his right, the far wall of which was taken up by an oversized stone fireplace. To his left was a doorway leading into the kitchen.

  The room was long and narrow. It had a small dining table by a window that looked out on the front yard. The cooking area was at the rear. Devon deposited his groceries on the counter, deciding the refrigerator was superfluous at the moment, and went in search of a thermostat.

  He found it down a paneled hallway and turned on the heat. An encouraging rumble came from somewhere in the house. A moment later, warm air began to flow through the vent at his feet.

  “Daddy.” He heard a pathetic cry. Caleb stood in the open doorway, red hands raised. “My fingers hurt.”

  “I told you, you have to put your mittens on. Come here.” He and Fiona had different parenting styles. Devon believed a child should understand why they were asked to do things. Caleb’s frozen fingers had taught him a valuable lesson. One he wouldn’t forget.

  Caleb trotted to him, and Devon held his hands over the flow of warm air. His son whimpered. “You’ll be okay in a minute,” Devon said.

  After two more trips to the car to retrieve the rest of their bags, Devon closed the front door. “Let’s go see the bedrooms.”

  Caleb’s hands must have recovered, because he darted away from the heat, down the hall, and into the closest room. A moment later, he was out, then quickly vanished into another doorway. He repeated this process several times, reminding Devon of a prairie dog popping in and out of its holes.

  “This one is mine,” Caleb called from the first room he’d entered.

  Devon followed his voice. The room contained twin beds. It was a small, wood-paneled space that would have been dark if it weren’t for a wide window on the far wall that opened onto a Christmas-card scene. A shining alabaster hill sloped away from the house, ending in a copse of silver-tipped trees. The sky was the palest of blues, striped by a constantly shifting pattern of snowflakes.

  Caleb stretched out on a navy-blue bedspread, his short legs and arms as wide as he could spread them. “I’ll sleep here.”

  “Then, I’ll take this bed.” Devon sat on the twin a few feet away. Between the beds was a small nightstand topped by a heavy wooden lamp carved into the shape of a bear.

  Caleb’s forehead furrowed. “You’re not going to sleep in the big bed?”

  Devon shrugged. “Maybe when Mommy comes.” He patted the mattress. “I’m gonna bunk in with you tonight.”

  Caleb jumped up and fisted his small hands. “Yes.”

  “Want me to teach you how to make snow angels?” Devon asked. His son’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tipped down on the left side. “If you put on the mittens and the hat Mommy packed, you won’t get so cold.”

  Caleb thought about it for a long moment. His mouth returned to its usual rosebud shape, and his hands clenched again. “Yes.”

  Snow angels were a hit. The hill outside the house was covered with them. Devon had sent Caleb into their bedroom to take off his wet clothes while he looked for firewood. The heater had taken the chill off the house, but he wanted to build a blaze in the stone fireplace for atmosphere. There was no wood in the metal basket in the living room and none in the closet next to it. Maybe there was dry wood outside somewhere.

  He didn’t bother with his jacket but did grab the waterproof gloves he’d lain on the table in the entryway next to yet another lamp shaped like a bear. This one reared up on hind legs and leaned against the rod the shade was attached to. Devon had noticed a similar lamp in the living room atop the bookcase near the fireplace. The owner of the cabin must have carved them or gotten a deal at local gift shop. They appeared to be all over the house, each bear in a different menacing position.

  Devon walked outside and after circling the house twice, he found a short plywood door under the back steps. On the other side of it was a crawlspace that had been turned into a woodshed.

  Ten minutes later, Devon had a nice pile of cut wood stacked against the fireplace wall. “Caleb,” he called, “want to help Daddy build a fire?”

  Was it okay to show an almost four-year-old how to build a fire? He knew what Fiona would say, but didn’t families in rural communities teach their children these kinds of basic skills early? A healthy respect for fire could save a child’s life. Besides, he didn’t plan to allow Caleb to touch anything. He just wanted to him to watch, to understand how it was done. He would also explain the dangers involved.

  Caleb didn’t answer.

  Devon brushed sawdust from his hands and stood. “Hey, Caleb. What’re you up to?”

  Again, no answer. He was probably reading one of his picture books. He couldn’t actually read, but Fiona had read them aloud so many times, Caleb had most of them memorized.

  “Buddy.” Devon stepped into the bedroom they were sharing and stopped. Caleb wasn’t there. His heart knocked out two extra beats, then he remembered. His child had recently learned the game of hide and seek, only sometimes he didn’t announce he was playing. He liked to stow away behind a door or under a bed and scream “boo!” when an unsuspecting parent ambled by.

  “Where, oh where, is Caleb?” Devon said in a sing-song voice. “Have you seen him, Mr. Bear?” He addressed the stuffed toy propped against the pillows. “No? Hm. I’ll have to eat all the mac and cheese myself.”

  Devon dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. No Caleb. He rose and glanced behind him to the closet. “It’s a shame he’s gone missing,” Devon continued. “I brought rocky road ice cream, his favorite. Maybe you can help me eat that, Mr. Bear. I know how much you like”—he tore open the closet door—“sweets.” The word thudded to the floor.

  The closet was empty.

  Devon’s heart thumped again. “Caleb.” Fear colored his tone with anger. “Caleb, this is enough. No more scaring Daddy. You come out now, you hear?”

  If Caleb heard, he didn’t obey. The silence Devon had been longing for cursed him now. He ran to the window and peered at the darkening day. The snow, a bright blue-gray, lay placidly between him and the pine woods.

  He had a sudden understanding of why so many terrifying children’s stories, from Little Red Riding Hood to Hansel and Gretel to Snow White, took place in the woods. Anything could hide in them. Especially at night when the trees cast long moonlit shadows and branches reached across narrow paths.

  A creak and a slam somewhere in the house startled him from his thoughts. He spun, expecting, hoping to see a small shape come bounding into the room screaming boo! There was nothing.

  Devon strode through the house, flinging open doors as he went. “Caleb,” he bellowed. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

  Not in the master bedroom or closet. Not in the bathtub or behind the bathroom door. Not in the living room, hiding behind the easy chair with its awful, crocheted afghan.

  The sound came again. The kitchen. He was sure it came from the kitchen. “Caleb,” he said in a softer tone.

  Do you know what it’s like to lose a child?

  “No,” he said aloud to Myron’s hateful voice and entered the kitchen. The only possible place Caleb could be was the pantry. Devon hadn’t opened that door at the end of the room yet, hadn’t bothered putting away their few dry goods, but there must be space for a child inside. There had to be.

  He crossed the kitchen and pulled the door open and stared. It wasn’t a pantry. Twin benches lined the left and right walls of the room. Hooks were drilled into the wall above them. A plaid jacket hung off one, a few moth-eaten beanies off two more. A pair of rubber boots leaned by a Dutch door at the far end.

  A Dutch door that led to the outside world. It opened an inch or two as if by an unseen hand, then pulled shut with a slam.

  “Caleb.”

  Devon bolted through the door and down the icy steps into the cabin’s backyard. A picnic table peeked out beneath a snow comforter. A grill leaned precariously under a mound of white, but these things hardly registered. His gaze was captured by footprints, tiny footprints, that spanned the distance between the house and the woods.

  Not bothering to get hat or gloves or jacket or phone, Devon ran. “Caleb.” His son’s name knifed through the frigid evening. Snow muffled sound, but cold made sound travel farther by bouncing the waves into warm air pockets that projected them forward.

  Devon knew this because he’d spent two weeks studying cold weather survival before heading to Big Bear. He’d thought the information might come in handy. He liked to prepare himself for new situations, but the information wasn’t helping him now.

  Why hadn’t he studied about the thought processes of three-and-a-half-year-olds? Why hadn’t he researched what young children do when you send them to their rooms to take off wet clothes? Why hadn’t he kept his eyes on Caleb instead of trusting him to listen?

  “Caleb,” he yelled again.

  He didn’t pause when he reached the treeline but plunged into the darkening woods. After only a yard or two, he stopped. Was that a footprint or a rock or a clod of dirt? There was so little light it was difficult to see the prints of Caleb’s small hiking boots. He should have gone back for his phone.

  He knelt and squinted ahead at the spaces between the trees. There were shadows in the ice—Caleb’s tracks. It must be Caleb’s tracks. He moved ahead, more slowly and carefully this time.

  The cold bit into his flesh and froze the tears in his eyes. He hollered his son’s name in a rhythm, every thirty seconds the same notes, the same timbre. It was a song of desperation.

  Endless minutes later, he heard a whimper. The sound shot through him like an arrow. “Caleb,” he called, then stilled himself and waited.

  “Daddy?”

  “Caleb? Where are you, baby?”

  “I’m here, Daddy. I gots lost.” The whimper expanded into a sob.

  Devon rounded a fat pine and saw a patch of red in the dying day. He ran. A moment later his arms surrounded his shivering child. He buried his face in Caleb’s hair and savored the scent of baby shampoo. “You’re okay now, son.”

  When they reached the house, Devon wrapped the ugly afghan around his child and sat him on the living room floor while he built a fire. When the fire was crackling, he ordered Caleb to stay put, and hurried into the bedroom for his pajamas.

  Devon pawed through the suitcase until the familiar dinosaur-print flannel PJs came to hand. A sob caught in his throat. They were so small. What had Devon been thinking, sending his son into the bedroom by himself?

  As he pulled off Caleb’s clothes and scrubbed his red skin with a rough towel, he prepared the questions he wanted to ask in his mind. He helped his son into the PJ bottoms, and said, “Why did you go outside when Daddy asked you to go into the bedroom?” He asked the question in a calm measured tone, despite the torrent of emotion still churning inside him.

  Caleb’s lower lip went crooked. “I needed help, but you was gone.”

  “What do you mean, I was gone?” Devon said.

  “You wasn’t in here.”

  Devon was about to argue, then realized he must have been outside getting the wood. “I went to get wood.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  A picture of what must have happened began to play in Devon’s mind. “So you went into the kitchen to find me?”

  Caleb nodded sadly. “You wasn’t there.”

  “So you walked out the backdoor?”

  “I looked for you.”

  Devon closed his eyes. His son’s face made his whole chest ache. What if a wild animal had found him before Devon had? There were mountain lions in the forests here. There were bears. There was cold, maybe the most lethal killer of all.

  He pulled the pajama shirt over Caleb’s head, wrapped him in the blanket again, and pulled him into his lap. “Let’s make a deal. Okay?”

  Caleb’s head moved up and down against his chest.

  “When I was in Boy Scouts, we had a buddy system. Do you know what that is?”

  The boy’s head moved in the opposite direction.

  “It’s when you and someone else agree that you’ll always stick together.”

  “Even when you go potty?”

  “Maybe not potty, but if you do go away, you always tell each other where you’re going and when you’re coming back.”

  “Why?”

  “To be safe. If Daddy hadn’t found you in the woods tonight—” He couldn’t finish that thought, but he didn’t think he had to. Caleb had obviously been terrified.

  Neither spoke for a long moment. They watched the spikes of light in the fireplace grow brighter as the room darkened around them. Caleb broke the quiet. “Are we buddies?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We stick together?”

  “Like glue.”

  Caleb giggled. “Like bubble gum?”

  “Yup.”

  “Like sticky tape?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like Hug-a-Boo-Boo bandages?”

  Devon squeezed him tighter and kissed his neck. Caleb squealed. “Like goopy-goop-goop?”

  “I think you made that up.”

  After a dinner of mac and cheese and hot dogs and three readings of his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine book, Caleb’s eyes began to close. Devon scooped him up, carried him into the bedroom, and nestled him under the blankets. Two little arms reached into the air for a final hug. “Where you going?”

  “Back by the fire,” Devon said. “I’m going to call Mommy.”

  “Supposed to tell me.” Caleb yawned out the words.

  “I just did.”

  His son’s eyes closed, and he whispered, “Pancakes for breakfast?”

  Devon swept the bangs off his forehead. “Sure. See you in the morning, buddy.”

  “Night, buddy.” And Caleb was out.

  7.1.4

  FIONA

  The doorbell rang. At least, Fiona thought it had. She couldn’t hear much over the blaring of the television. As soon as she’d gotten home, she’d turned on the TV and every light she walked past on her way to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. It made the house feel less empty.

  She grabbed the remote, lowered the volume and heard the chime of the door clearly. Her gaze fell on the mantel clock. It was only 6:45. Olivia was early.