I was beginning to think the whole town was vacant. Then I heard a rumble off to my right. A red four-wheeler pulled up next to me. Its driver wore a ski mask, though whether to protect from the bitter cold or to burglarize the place, I couldn’t be sure. I activated my power locks, thinking as I did that I couldn’t have done that in Grandma’s old Buick. The man glanced over at the sound and shook his head. He went in the store. I waited. He came out a few minutes later carrying a case of soda. His mask was folded back to his forehead. I scrunched in concentration as I studied his face. He was a notch older than me and good-looking in a rugged sort of way. But there was nothing familiar about him. He bore no resemblance to any nine- or ten-year-olds from the past. With a narrow-eyed look in my direction, he got on his four-wheeler and rode away.

I stepped out of my vehicle and walked into the store. A bell jangled overhead as I entered. The scent of fresh, sweet donuts met me at the door. To one side, candy bars and treats were laid out at kid-level beneath the front window. Directly in front of me, racks of DVDs promised night after night of entertainment. The covers were sprinkled with yellow Post-it notes that said “Sorry, Out.” The blizzard must have boosted rentals.

To the other side, a fifty-something woman with a poof of blonde hair stood behind the checkout. I gave a nod and smiled as I pulled a cart from the stack and headed in search of the bottled water aisle. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was watching me, even after I turned the corner out of sight. I glanced up at one of the large, round security mirrors and met her eyes. I looked away, focusing on the choice of bottles and jugs in front of me. I ignored the suspicion that nagged at me. I was new in town. She was curious. That was all.

I loaded the water and went down the remaining aisles of the miniature supermarket. I grabbed the basics on my way through, then ordered up six assorted donuts at checkout.

“Expecting company already?” the woman asked.

“Me? No, just figured I’d have some treats handy the next few days.” I stared at her, wondering if I should know her, and why she seemed to know something about me.

Her cheeks were rosy with makeup and her maroon lipstick looked freshly applied. She kept a pleasant smile as she checked price tags and punched buttons on the cash register. Stick-on fingernails flashed a metallic pink in the fluorescent lighting.

“That’ll be twenty-nine dollars and sixteen cents,” she said in a raspy smoker’s voice.

I grimaced at the high cost of groceries in this out-of-the-way burg as I groped through the pocket of my ski coat for the money. I laid two twenties on the counter.

The cash drawer popped open with a bing and she passed me my change.

“Oh,” she said, “this is for you.” She fished around next to an old-fashioned rotary phone and found a slip of paper. “Candice wanted you to have her number. Said to call her as soon as you got in.”

I reached for the note in slow motion. “Who’s Candice?”

The woman smiled. “Candice LeJeune. She figured you wouldn’t remember her. You used to visit her all the time when you were a kid.”

I stared at the folded paper with “Tish” written across the top. Whoever this Candice was, she had a lot of nerve calling me by the pet name my mother had given me. I only liked people to call me Tish after I’d given my permission.

“Was Candice a friend of my mother’s?” I asked.

“And your grandmother’s, God rest her soul,” the woman said.

My glance shot up at the reference to my grandmother. I couldn’t be sure, but there might have been a hint of accusation in her eyes.

“My grandmother was a wonderful lady. Did you know her?” I asked.

“Everybody knew Eva Nagy. There’s a ton of Nagys around here. Eva was related to half the peninsula.”

My forehead rose in surprise. I guess I never knew my grandmother’s maiden name. She’d been Eva Amble for as long as I could remember. I had a feeling there would be a lot more surprises coming my way. Questions I’d asked Gram about my mother, my father, my early years had all carried the same response: “Let it lie, Tish. No sense living in the past. Just let it lie.”

A tiny nuclear bomb had exploded in my chest every time I’d heard the words, until fallout had built up to the point I could no longer ignore it.

I looked at the note in my hand. It pulsed in my fingers like some mystical Pandora’s box. Dare I open it and step into the past? Or should I heed my grandmother’s words of warning and leave well enough alone?

3

I slid the note open.

Call me! Aunt Candice.

A local telephone number accompanied the scribbled letters.

No friendly face popped to mind at the inscription. I had no memory of an “Aunt Candice,” nor any other relations. Maybe I’d recognize her once I saw her face.

I gathered up my purchases, gave the cashier a parting smile, and headed out.

“Welcome home, Tish,” she called behind me. I let the words get lost in the wind as I pushed open the door.

A patch of blue sky broke through the cloud cover, sending sunlight glinting off the fresh snow. The sudden glare made my eyes water. I loaded the groceries in the Explorer. Before I left town, I stopped at the bank to open a new account. The teller seemed to recognize my name, but allowed me the dignity of my privacy. At least one institution in town practiced confidentiality.

I ducked my face against the wind, jumped in my car, and headed north. I’d already come to the realization that there was no such thing as anonymity in this day and age. One word from the real estate agent, one look at the national headlines ten years back, and anyone would know who I was. Patricia Louise Amble, Grandma Slayer. I thought I’d shaken the feeling that people were judging me. But I guess it would take more time. And if Gram had been related to half the peninsula as the clerk said, then I could expect a few evil eyes for my past deed. I’d just have to hold my head up and not let it get to me. They weren’t going to run me out of Port Silvan like some Frankenstein’s monster. I planned on sticking around awhile.

I slowed and took the turn down my driveway. Snow flew from the tires in my rearview as I gunned the engine through the drifts. I pulled up to the cottage feeling like a cowboy who’d just rounded up a herd of cattle. Yee-haw. I loved the power beneath the hood.

I brought in the groceries and water jugs. While I put things away, I thought about where I might find the water shutoff valve so I could get the faucets working again. I couldn’t remember seeing any doors on the first floor that might conceal waterworks. That meant there had to be a crawl space or a freestanding pump house somewhere nearby.

I tried picturing the yard without snow, as I’d seen it every summer back when. The only structure that came to mind was a garden shed that stood about a hundred feet from one end of the house, at the edge of the woods. That left the probability of a crawl space. Hopefully the access door was inside the house.

The sound of an approaching vehicle seeped through the thin glass of the kitchen windows. I headed toward the back door, wondering who would brave the driveway in this weather.

I stepped onto the porch. Snow dust blew down the neck of my jacket. I zipped against the ice-cold pinpricks. The roar of a diesel engine reverberated through the trees. A truck pulled into sight. Snow flew to one side in front of it like a white geyser. The driver slowed, angled into a snow bank, then backed up, revealing a rusty red plow attachment. The truck took another swipe at the opposite bank. After a few more maneuvers, the vehicle parked on the cleared driveway. The engine cut out. The rust-eaten driver’s side door opened. A pair of brown Sorels, laces dangling, appeared.

“Morning, young lady.” A burly man wearing tan canvas-type outerwear stepped into view. Curly white hair and a matching beard circled his face. He carried a to-go cup in one hand.

“Hi.” I held on to the rail as I went down the porch steps.

“Thought you might need some help cleaning up this mess.” He spit a stream of tobacco into the snow.

“Thank you.” I put my hand out. “I’m Patricia Amble.”

He took my fingers in a loose grip. “I know who you are. You’re Beth’s little one.”

Beth. That was a name I hadn’t heard in years.

“Did you know my mother?” I couldn’t contain my excitement.

His eyes roved my face. “’Course I did. You look a lot like her.” The old guy shook his head. “Too bad how things ended up for your mom.”

“Yeah.” Tears stung my eyes. Dead at the bottom of a quarry was a pathetic end for anybody. I sniffled. “So how did you know her?”

“I’m hoping for a fill-up on my coffee. Got any?” He lifted his travel mug.

“Oh, gee.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I was working on that when you pulled up. Come on in.”

He followed me inside. He leaned against the wall and started to pull off a boot.

“Please,” I waved a hand. “Leave those on. It’s too cold in here for stocking feet.” I poured water from a jug into the coffeemaker. “Besides, nothing can hurt this old linoleum.” I wrinkled my nose at the tan-and-black-flecked tiles.

I scooped some coffee into the filter and turned on the pot. The machine belched, then dripped fragrant, steaming liquid. “It just takes a few minutes.”

“I hear you’re going to fix this place up.” The old gentleman surveyed the kitchen.

I shook off my annoyance. I’d moved from one small town to another. Of course everyone knew who I was and what my plans were.