It was what her mother used to call snowman snow-the kind damp enough to stick together. Trixie packed it into a ball. She started to roll it across the lawn like a bandage, leaving behind a long brown tongue of matted grass.

  After a while, she surveyed the damage. The yard looked like a crazy quilt, white stripes bordering triangles and squares made of lawn. Taking another handful of snow, Trixie began to roll a second snowball, and a third. A few minutes later, she was standing in the middle of them, wondering how they�d gotten so big so fast. There was no way she would be able to lift one onto the other. How had she managed to build a snowman when she was little? Maybe she hadn�t. Maybe someone else had always done it for her.

  Suddenly the door opened and her mother was standing there, screaming her name and trying to see through the flakes still coming down. She looked frantic, and it took Trixie a moment to understand: Her mother didn�t know she�d come outside; her mother was still worried she�d kill herself.

  �Over here,� Trixie said.

  Not that death-by-blizzard was a bad idea. When Trixie was tiny, she used to dig a hideout in the mountain of snow left behind by the plow. She called it her igloo, even though her father had told her that Eskimos in America did not and never had lived in those. But then she read a newspaper article about a kid in Charlotte, Vermont, who had done the same exact thing and the roof had collapsed on his head and smothered him before his parents even knew he was missing, and she never did it again.

  Her mother walked outside and immediately sank ankle-deep in snow. She was wearing Trixie�s boots, which she must have dug out of the closet wreckage after Trixie had commandeered her own Sorels. �You want help?� her mother asked.

  Trixie didn�t. If she�d wanted help, she would have invited someone outside with her in the first place. But she couldn�t for the life of her imagine how she was going to get that stupid belly on top of the snowman�s base. �All right,� she conceded.

  Her mother got on one side of the ball and pushed, while Trixie tried to pull it from the front. Even together, they couldn�t budge the weight. �Welcome to the Fourth Circle,� her mother said, laughing.

  Trixie fell onto her butt on the snow. Leave it to her mother to turn this into a classics lesson.

  �You�ve got your tightwads on one side and your greedy folks on the other,� her mother said. �They shove boulders at each other for all eternity.�

  �I was kind of hoping to finish this up before then.�

  Her mother turned. �Why, Trixie Stone. Was that a joke?�

  Since coming home from the hospital, there had been precious few of those in the household. When a television sitcom came on, the channel was immediately changed. When you felt a smile coming on, you squelched it. Feeling happy didn�t seem particularly appropriate, not with everything that had gone on lately. It was as if, Trixie thought, they were all waiting for someone to wave a magic wand and say, It�s okay, now. Carry on.

  What if she was the one who was supposed to wave that wand?

  Her mother began to sculpt a snow ramp. Trixie fell into place beside her, pushing the middle snowball higher and higher until it tipped onto the bigger base. She packed snow between the seams. Then she lifted the head and perched it at the very top.

  Her mother clapped�just as snowman listed and fell. His head rolled into one of the basement window gutters; his midsection cracked like an egg. Only the massive base sphere remained intact.

  Frustrated, Trixie slapped a snowball against the side of it. Her mother watched and then packed her own snowball. Within seconds they were both firing shots at the boulder until it cleaved down the center, until it succumbed to the assault and lay between them in fat iceberg chunks.

  By then, Trixie was lying on her back, panting. She had not felt-well, this normal in some time. It occurred to her that had things ended differently a week ago, she might not be doing any of this. She�d been so focused on what she had wanted to get away from in this world she forgot to consider what she might miss.

  When you die, you don�t get to catch snowflakes on your tongue. You don�t get to breathe winter in, deep in your lungs. You can�t lie in bed and watch for the lights of the passing town plow. You can�t suck on an icicle until your forehead hurts.

  Trixie stared up at the dizzy flakes. �I�m kind of glad.�

  �About what?�

  �That it didn�t�you know�work out.�

  She felt her mother�s hand reach over to grab her own. Their mittens were both soaked.

  They�d go inside, stick their clothes inside the dryer. Ten minutes later, they�d be good as new.

  Trixie wanted to cry. It was that beautiful, knowing what came next.

  Because of the storm, hockey practice had been canceled. Jason came home after school, as per the conditions of his bail, and holed himself up in his bedroom listening to the White Stripes on his iPod. He closed his eyes and executed mental passes to Moss, wrist shots and slapshots and pucks that hit the top shelf.

  One day, people would be talking about him, and not just because of this rape case. They�d say things like, Oh, Jason Underhill, we always knew he�d make it. They�d put up a replica jersey of his over the mirror behind the town bar, with his name facing out, and the Bruins games would take precedence over any other programming on the one TV mounted in the corner.

  Jason had a lot of work cut out ahead of him, but he could do it. A year or two postgrad, then some college hockey, and maybe he�d even be like Hugh Jessiman at Dartmouth and get signed in the first round of the NHL draft. Coach had told Jason that he�d never seen a forward with as much natural talent as Jason. He�d said that if you wanted something bad enough, all you had to learn was how to go out and take it.

  He was living out his fantasy for the hundredth time when the door to his room burst open. Jason�s father strode in, fuming, and yanked the iPod�s headphones out of Jason�s ears.

  �What the hell?� Jason said, sitting up.

  �You want to tell me what you left out the first time? You want to tell me where you got the goddamned drugs?�

  �I don�t do drugs,� Jason said. �Why would I do something that�s going to screw up my game?�

  �Oh, I believe you,� his father said, sarcastic. �I believe you didn�t take any of those drugs yourself.�

  The conversation was spinning back and forth in directions Jason couldn�t follow. �Then why are you flipping out?�

  �Because Dutch Oosterhaus called me at work to discuss a little lab report he got today. The one they did on Trixie Stone�s blood that proves someone knocked her out by slipping her a drug.�

  Heat climbed the ladder of Jason�s spine.

  �You know what else Dutch told me? Now that drugs are in the picture, the prosecutor�s got enough evidence to try you as an adult.�

  �I didn�t-�

  A vein pulsed in his father�s temple. �You threw it all away, Jason. You fucking threw it all away for a small-town whore.�

  �I didn�t drug her. I didn�t rape her. She must have fooled around with that blood sample, because�because�� Jason�s voice dropped off. �Jesus Christ�you don�t believe me.�

  �No one does,� his father said, weary. He reached into his back pocket for a letter that had already been opened and passed it to Jason before leaving the room.

  Jason sank down onto his bed. The letter was embossed with a return address for Bethel Academy; the name of the hockey coach had been scrawled above it in pen. He began to read: In lieu of recent circumstances�withdrawing its initial offer of a scholarship for a postgraduate year�sure you understand our position and its reflection on the academy.

  The letter dropped from his hands, fluttering to land on the carpet. The iPod, without its headphones, glowed a mute blue. Who would have imagined that the sound your life made as it disintegrated was total silence?

  Jason buried his face in his hands and, for the first time since all this had begun, started to cry.

  Once the storm had stopped and the streets were cleared, the storekeepers in Bethel came out to shovel their walkways and talk about how lucky they were that this latest blizzard hadn�t caused the town manager to cancel the annual Winterfest.

  It was always held the Friday before Christmas and was a direct ploy to boost the local economy. Main Street was blocked off by the spinning blue lights of police cars. Shops stayed open late, and hot cider was served for free in the inn. Christmas lights winked like fireflies in the bare branches of the trees. Some enterprising farmer carted in a sickly looking reindeer and set up portable fencing around it: a North Pole petting zoo. The bookstore owner, dressed as Santa, arrived at seven o�clock and stayed as long as it took to hear the holiday requests of all the children waiting in line.

  This year, in an effort to connect local sports heroes to the community, the square in front of the town offices had been sealed and flooded to create a makeshift ice rink. The Ice CaBabes, a local competitive figure-skating team, had done an exhibition routine earlier that evening. Now the championship Bethel High School hockey team was slated to play pickup hockey with a local group of Boy Scouts.

  After everything that had happened, Jason hadn�t planned to go-until Coach called up and said he had an obligation to the team. What Coach hadn�t done, however, was specify in what condition Jason had to arrive. It was a fifteen-minute ride downtown, and he drank a fifth of his dad�s Jack Daniel�s on the way.

  Moss was already on the ice when Jason sat down on a bench and pulled out his skates. �You�re late,� Moss said.

  Jason double-knotted the laces, grabbed his stick, and shoved hard past Moss. �You here to talk or play hockey?� He skated so fast down the center of the rink that he had to slalom around some of the wobbling kids. Moss met him and they passed the puck in a series of complicated handoffs. On the sidelines, the parents cheered, thinking this was all part of the exhibition.

  Coach called for a face-off, and Jason skated into position. The kid he was opposing on the scout team came up as high as his hip. The puck was dropped, and the high school team let the kids win it. But Jason stick-checked the boy who was skating down the ice, stole the puck, and carried it down to the goal. He lifted it to the upper right corner of the net, where there was no chance of the tiny goalie being able to stop it. He pumped his stick in the air and looked around for his other teammates, but they were hanging back, and the crowd wasn�t cheering anymore. �Aren�t we supposed to score?� he yelled out, his words slurring. �Did the rules change here, too?�

  Moss led Jason to the side of the rink. �Dude. It�s just pond hockey, and they�re just kids.�

  Jason nodded, shook it off. They met for another face-off, and this time when the kids took the puck Jason skated backward slowly, making no move to go after it. Unused to playing without the boards, he tripped over the plastic edge of the rink liner and fell into the arms of the crowd. He noticed Zephyr Santorelli-Weinstein�s face, and a half-dozen others from school. �Sorry,� he muttered, staggering to his feet.

  When he stepped onto the ice again, Jason headed for the puck, hip-checking a player to get him out of the way. Except this time, his opponent was half his size and a third of his weight, and went flying.

  The boy banged into his goalie, who slid into the net in a heap, crying. Jason watched the kid�s father hurry onto the ice in his street shoes.

  �What is wrong with you today?� Moss said, skating close.

  �It was an accident,� Jason answered, and his friend reared back, smelling the alcohol.

  �Coach is going to rip you a new asshole. Get out of here. I�ll cover for you.�

  Jason stared at him.

  �Go,� Moss said.

  Jason took one last look at the boy and his father, then skated hard to the spot where he�d left his boots.

 

  I did not die, and yet I lost life�s breath:

  imagine for yourself what I became,

  deprived at once of both my life and death.

  Laura read Lucifer�s lines in the last canto of the Inferno, then closed the book. Hands down, Lucifer was the most fascinating character in the poem: waist-deep in the lake of ice, with his three heads gnawing on a feast of sinners. Having once been an archangel, he certainly had the freedom of choice-in fact, it was what got him to pick a fight with God in the first place. So if Lucifer had willingly chosen his course, had he known beforehand that he was going to end up suffering?

  Did he think, on some level, that he deserved it?

  Did anyone, who was cast in the role opposite the hero?

  It occurred to Laura that she had sinned in every single circle. She�d committed adultery. She�d betrayed her benefactor-the university-by seducing a student�which could also be considered treachery, if you classified Seth as an innocent pawn in the game. She�d defied God by ignoring her wedding vows: She�d defied her family by distancing herself from Trixie when Trixie needed her most. She�d lied to her husband, she�d been angry and wrathful, she�d sowed discord, and she�d been a fraudulent counselor to a student who came looking for a mentor and wound up with a lover.

  About the only thing Laura hadn�t done was kill someone.

  She reached behind her desk for an antique china human head she had found at a garage sale. It was smooth and white and divided into calligraphed subsections across the brain area: wit, glory, revenge, bliss. Over the skull she�d put a headband sporting two red devil horns, a gift from a student one Halloween. Now she took the headband off and tried it on for size.

  There was a knock on her door, and a moment later Seth stepped into her office. �Are those horns on your head,� he said, �or are you just happy to see me?�

  She yanked off the headband.

  �Five minutes.� He closed the door, locked it. �You owe me that much.�

  Relationships always sounded so physically painful: You fell in love, you broke a heart, you lost your head. Was it any wonder that people came through the experience with battle scars? The problem with a marriage-or maybe its strength-was that it spanned a distance, and you were never the same person you started out being. If you were lucky, you could still recognize each other years later. If you weren�t, you wound up in your office with a boy fifteen years younger than you were, pouring his heart into your open hands.

  All right. If she was going to be honest, she had loved the way Seth knew what an anapest was, and a canzone. She loved seeing their reflection in a pane of glass as they passed a storefront and being surprised every time. She loved playing Scrabble on a rainy afternoon when she should have been grading papers or attending a departmental meeting. But just because she had called in sick that day didn�t mean she wasn�t still a professor. Just because she abandoned her family didn�t mean she wasn�t still a wife, a mother. Her biggest sin, when you got right down to it, was forgetting all that in the first place.

  �Seth,� she said, �I don�t know how to make this any easier. But-�

  She broke off, realizing the words she was about to say: But I love my husband.

  I always have.

  �We need to talk,� Seth said quietly. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and tossed a rolled newspaper onto the table.

  Laura had seen it. The front page chronicled the newly filed charge by the district attorney. Jason Underhill would be tried as an adult, due to the presence of date rape drugs in the victim�s bloodstream.

  �Ketamine,� Seth said.

  Laura blinked at him. From what the prosecutor had said, the drug found in Trixie�s system hadn�t even been one of the more popular date rape drugs. It hadn�t been listed in the newspaper, either. �How would you know that?�

  Seth sat down on the edge of her desk. �There�s something I have to tell you,� he said.

  �I�m coming!� Trixie yelled through the open door, as her father honked the horn for the third time. Jesus. It wasn�t like she wanted to go into town right now, and it wasn�t her fault that the pizza cheese he was using to cook dinner had grown enough mold to be classified as an antibiotic. She hadn�t been doing anything earth-shattering that she couldn�t interrupt, but it was the principle that was upsetting her: Neither parent felt comfortable letting Trixie out of sight.

  She stomped into the first pair of boots she could find and headed outside to his idling truck. �Can�t we just have soup?� Trixie said, slouching down in her seat, when what she really meant was: What will it take to make you trust me again?

  Her father put the truck into first gear to go down a long hill. �I know you want me to leave you home alone. But I hope you also know why I can�t do that.�

  Trixie rolled her eyes toward the window. �Whatever.�

  As they approached town, there was a glut of cars. People in bright parkas and scarves spilled across the street like a stream of confetti. Trixie felt her stomach turn over. �What�s the date?� she murmured. She�d seen the signs all over school: ICE = NICE. DON�T BE A SNOWFLAKE-COME TO WINTERFEST.

  Trixie shrank back in her seat as three girls she recognized from school came so close to the car they brushed the front bumper. Everyone came to the Winterfest. When she was little, her parents would take her to pat the sorry old reindeer idling near the camera store. She could remember seeing ordinary teachers and doctors and waitresses become Victorian carolers for a night. Last year, Trixie had been an elf along with Zephyr, the two of them wearing double layers of skating tights and handing out candy canes to the kids who sat on Santa�s lap.

  This year, walking down Main Street would be totally different. At first, no one would see her, because it was dark out. But then, someone would bump into her by accident. Sorry, they�d say, and then they�d realize who it was. They�d tap their friends. They would point. They�d lean close and whisper about how Trixie wasn�t wearing any makeup and how her hair looked like it hadn�t been washed in a week. Before she had made it to the other end of Main Street, their stares would have burned into the back of her coat like sunlight through a looking glass, starting a flash fire that reduced her to a pile of ashes.

  �Daddy,� she said, �can�t we just go home?�

  Her father glanced at her. He�d had to detour around Main Street and was now parked in a lot behind the grocery store. Trixie could see he was weighing the cost of reaching his destination against Trixie�s extreme discomfort�and factoring in her suicide attempt to boot. �You stay in the car,� her father conceded. �I�ll be right back.�

  Trixie nodded and watched him cross the parking lot. She closed her eyes and counted to fifty. She listened to the sound of her own pulse.

  Yet as it turned out, what Trixie had thought she wanted most of all-being left alone-turned out to be absolutely terrifying. When the door of the car beside her slammed, she jumped. The headlights swept over her as the car backed out, and she ducked her face against the collar of her coat so that the driver couldn�t see.