through the light curtain of falling snowflakes an hour earlier when she and Ramsey had set out for their day of skiing. Now, in her coffin of packed powder, Helena held the picture of her infant boy in her mind. She saw him as he’d been in the minutes after his extraction from her womb, over eleven years ago. The last time she’d set eyes on him.
That labor, the birth, her experiences after…Even now, her final minutes ticking away, the memory was a horror. Better to go like this—a slow, but relatively painless death.
Better for her, perhaps…Guilt pressed in like the snow above her head. Fifteen minutes ago she’d laughed at the risk of an avalanche. Her companion, Ramsey Carter, had tried to steer her along the safe ridge that he’d mapped out in the small wooden shack where they’d spent the night.
But the virgin drifts on the sloping bowl had been too inviting. She’d dug in her poles and pointed her ski tips toward the inviting concave mountain basin. Around her the snow lay in thick scallops from the previous day’s storm. The whoosh and scratch of her skis against the ice crystals were the only sounds as she swooped down the 35° slope.
Except for Ramsey’s cry. “Helen!”
She’d laughed and tucked her body lower to the ground. Funny how many ways there were to outrun pain. She never would’ve guessed skiing on the edge of her control could be one of them. She almost felt she was flying. Then suddenly she really was in the air. She glanced down and couldn’t see her feet.
Something hit her from behind and she was falling, ski poles dangling wildly from the safety straps attached to her wrists.
Now the snow was no longer fluffy, but hard, concrete stuff that burned her skin and bruised her bones as she was sucked deeper within it. The skis, which had allowed her to skim the crystal surface just minutes before, were now anchors dragging her down. Her flailing arms became imprisoned in the mounting piles of snow, ensnared, too, by their attached poles.
When her free fall finally stopped, she was like a butterfly mounted on Styrofoam. Movement was impossible. How much snow settled above her? She had no idea. All she knew was that she was packed in and everything around her was dark and absolutely still.
In the isolating darkness, it was a shock to realize she could still hear the world above—tree limbs rubbing in the stiff breeze, the squawking from a couple of disturbed whiskey jacks. She tried to struggle, but her range of motion was limited to the wriggling of her fingers from hands spread out sideways to her body.
Too late she wished she had kept them in front of her face before she was buried. Snow pressed in on her eyes, against her nose and mouth, making it a struggle to gasp for air.
Had Ramsey seen the avalanche in time? Been able to ski to safety? She hoped he hadn’t followed her, wasn’t at this moment risking his life for hers.
Flashes of light played before her eyes. She knew the snow must be cold, but her body beneath the tight ski pants and Nordic sweater felt warm, the pain in her leg almost trifling. She listened for Ramsey’s voice above, but moments passed and she heard nothing.
She hoped he would be safe. It was only fair. He, after all, had a family to return to. While she did not.
She thought of Davin, her baby, her love. Poor baby. Regret pounded through her veins, along with her cooling blood. What was she doing here? She never should have left the first time. Nor the second…
Desperate for air, she opened her mouth and took in dry granules of snow, instead. Realizing her mistake, she tried to spit them out, but her face was packed in too tightly. Panic built, then exploded. From low in her chest she let out a scream that no one would hear.
The scream went on and on, until her lungs were burning and the ringing drove all other sound from her ears.
Inside her head, her scream had a name, and her mind conjured a face identical to the one she saw reflected in the mirror every morning. Her last conscious thought was a plea for help.
Amalie! I can’t breathe! Help me, Amalie!
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS JANUARY, and cold to be standing outside in the snow, but eleven-year-old Davin Fremont didn’t mind. He laughed as his aunt Amalie took a wild swing at the piñata strung up in his best friend’s backyard—and missed.
“Come on, guys,” his aunt pleaded, her eyes covered by a tightly knotted scarf. “Give me a clue. Right or left?”
“Left!” one of the kids at the party yelled.
“Right!” shot back Jeremy, the birthday boy.
Amalie stumbled in the snow, unaware that the papier-mâché sheriff hung precisely over her head. A gust of wind set it spinning and Davin yearned for the candies and trading cards he knew were stuffed into the hollow form.
“No clues,” he said, hoping he’d get another turn with the bat. “It isn’t fair.”
“Oh, sure. Fair. I didn’t hear any talk about fairness when you were up here, Davin.”
“Maybe we should give her another spin.” Jeremy’s mother was laughing almost as hard as Davin. When a couple of the boys started to run toward Amalie, she leaped forward to restrain them. “I was only kidding! She’s having a hard enough time as it is.”
“Just wait until it’s your turn, Jen,” Amalie threatened.
“No doubt you’ll have the piñata shattered before then.”
“Jenny, if I had any idea where you were standing, I just might be tempted…” His aunt raised the plastic baseball bat in her hands threateningly.
Davin saw Jeremy smirk and he laughed, too. It was fun the way his aunt and Mrs. Mitchell teased each other. They’d been friends a long time. Gone to university together, and now worked at the same hospital. Davin and Jeremy were going to do the same thing when they grew up.
“Come on, swing the bat!” urged one impatient party guest.
That was when Davin noticed his aunt wasn’t moving. It was like she’d frozen solid. A second later she moaned and collapsed to her knees.
“Aunty?” He glanced at Jeremy’s mom and dad. The concern on their faces made him scared. He ran for his aunt and threw both arms around her, as Jeremy’s dad whisked the scarf off her face.
Aunt Amalie didn’t seem to notice. She was bending over her stomach, her mouth open. “I ca-can’t breathe!”
Davin hugged tighter, more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. Was his aunt dying?
“Honey, give her some space.” He felt Mrs. Mitchell pry his arms away. His aunt was on the ground now, curled into a ball, her hands at her throat.
“Stand back, boys! Should I call 911?” Mr. Mitchell sounded tense.
“I’m not sure. It’s almost like an epileptic fit, but Amalie isn’t—” Crouched in the snow next to his aunt, Jennifer was holding Davin with one hand while she observed her friend. “She is breathing, though she seems to be having trouble drawing in air. Amalie, can you hear me? Is your chest hurting?”
“Yes.
