“With me? All cuddled up like you love me?”
“Shut up and shove over.” She doesn’t sound mad. More importantly, she doesn’t deny it.
I scoot closer to the middle to make room for her, then hold up the blanket to invite her in. She burrows right into me, her back against my chest, her hips tucked into mine. I settle the blanket over both of us, and within a couple of minutes, her breath falls into the steady rhythm of sleep.
I stare down at this armful of woman with something like awe. I don’t know if many people get to love someone this much. Whatever happens, I’m grateful I’ve grown up enough in the last four years to realize it.
A wayward strand of hair clings to her cheek, and I tuck it behind her ear and feather a kiss against her temple. “Love you forever, Taylor Bixby,” I whisper. “No matter what.” She gives a soft, indistinct murmur and snuggles further into my chest.
I lie awake for a long time watching her sleep, until finally, it pulls me down too.
When I wake up again, it’s to empty arms and loud rumbling outside. It’s still dark through the crack in the curtains, and I get up and shuffle out to find Taylor and identify the noise. Light from the kitchen spills into the living room, but it’s still dim enough to see clearly through the front windows.
The problem is I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s a truck. A big Chevy diesel. I open the front door and step out into the cold to peer at the driver.
“You have got to be kidding me.” That’s—
“What’s going on?” Taylor asks behind me. She’s too smart to step out on the porch.
I come in and shut the door before I answer. “That is Jon in a big old truck with a snowplow blade on the front, clearing our driveway.”
Her forehead wrinkles, and she blinks at me, trying to make sense of this.
“He started at his house. He’s working his way down to the road.”
“Which means he could have done this yesterday,” Taylor finishes.
We stare at each other. I’m not sure what’s going through her mind, but in mine, I’m replaying some odd conversations and moments involving four suspicious parents.
“I’ve got some calls to make when we get on the road,” I say.
“Permission to join as co-interrogator.”
“Can I be bad cop?”
“They don’t deserve good cop. Let’s both be bad cop.”
“I like the way you think,” I tell her. “I’m going to shovel the last bit of snow between your car and the road.”
“I’ll pack up food.”
An hour later, the sun still hasn’t peeked over the eastern mountains, but everything is washed in faint predawn light, and we’re ready to go, the car packed, the path clear all the way to the end of the private road.
We settle in, and Taylor wants to drive again. She puts two coffee tumblers in the cupholders. “Cocoa,” she says. “We can stop for coffee later if we see anything promising.”
“Taylor for president,” I say. “It’s not seven yet. Is it too early to call our parents?”
“Probably.”
“Good.” I stab my mom’s number, putting her on speaker. “Hey, Mom. Hope I woke you up.”
“Levi?” Her voice is groggy. “Is everything okay?”
“No. Working on an explosive investigative report.”
“Wha—”
“Was the electricity ever really out in the cabin?”
