“You wanna tell me what we’re doing here?”
She opened her door, gasping at the sharp punch of the wind as it cut through her thin jacket. She’d changed into jeans, back at the bar, but still, her clothes were no match for winter’s bite.
She ducked her head as the whipping snowflakes bit at her face, and headed around the nose of the Chevelle, toward the house.
Michael reached her when she hit the sidewalk, his hands latching onto her biceps, spinning her to face him. Her hair streamed across her eyes, getting caught in her lashes, and she swiped it away, trying to pull out of his grip.
“I need to–”
“What the hell are you doing?” He gave her a gentle shake, clearing the last of the hair from her face.
He looked pale, hard-edged, and aggressive, in the whitewashed afternoon eddying with snow. The sight of his face, with white flakes grabbing at his hair and his eyelashes, left her feeling hopeless to gain his sympathy. He wouldn’t understand this, no matter how she phrased it.
But considering how hard his fingers were digging into her, she guessed she had to try.
“Carly lived here,” she said, speaking over the wind. “This is her boyfriend’s house.”
He stared at her.
“She’s dead because of me,” Holly said, her voice beginning to crack at the edges. “And her boyfriend has to have Christmas without her, and I thought, the least I could do–”
Michael scowled at her. A legit, actual scowl. “You’re gonna, what? Apologize to the guy?”
She met his stare with an unflinching one of her own. “Yes.”
“Damn.” He glanced toward the house, back at her face. “All the windows are dark. Did you see that? No one’s home.”
She twisted around to look, fighting the pressure of his hands, hoping he was wrong. But of course he wasn’t.
The windowswereall dark, the blinds shut tight. There wasn’t a car in the drive, and the snow was fast covering its cold asphalt.
“He’s not here.” Michael gave her another shake. “Get back in the car before you catch cold.”
She refused to move, resisting his pull. “Maybe he’s in there sitting all alone in the dark. I should at least knock. If he’s home–”
“What would you say to him? Your fucking psycho rapist husband thought she was you? And strangled her when she wasn’t? Holly, get back in the car. There’s nothing you can do.”
“But I–”
“Get in the car!”
He’d never shouted at her before, and it brought an instant hot rush of tears to her eyes. The tension bled out of her in a fast wave, leaving her weak and trembling, more sensitive to the cold than she should have been.
He looped an arm around her waist and she went along with him as he towed her back to the Chevelle, walked around to the passenger side and bundled her in.
Her teeth were chattering as he walked around to the driver’s side. Her fingers fumbled with the seatbelt fastening.
A sharp blast of snow followed Michael in before he could slam the door, and he reached to crank the heat. He didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her.
Holly pulled her hands inside her sleeves and shivered, leaning against the window.
**
His silence had never bothered her before, but it did now. Michael didn’t utter a word until they were standing in his toasty warm kitchen and he was taking her jacket from her. By that time, the house, the yard, and the street lay beneath an inch of snow, with more falling in opaque profusion.
“Did you get it out of your system?” he asked, and left the room with her jacket over his arm.
Holly bit down hard on her cheek and waited for him to return. When he did, he was carrying a thick zippered sweatshirt that he draped over her shoulders. It was such an automatic, casual display of concern, wanting her to be warm enough, that she almost retracted her words.
