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the backwoods of Vermont。 She was hoping she wouldn't see anyone in the
week she was here。
Pretty reclusive for a former socializer； she mused without a hint of
remorse。
From the hearth； the sudden crumbling of an ash…split log startled her。
She whirled from the window； eyes wide in alarm。 When she realized what
the sound was； she took a breath and uncurled fingers from fists。 After
months of being bitten to the quick； her nails had grown into nicely
tapered tips。 And there was her wedding band； wide and gold； gleaming
with deceptive brightness； on the third finger of her left hand。
When the fire spoke again； cackling for a feeding； she knelt before the
warm stone。 Taking a piece of dried birch from the large wood basket；
she laid it over the broken embers。 The log heated； then burst into
flame。 It was an omen； she vowed； as she picked up her book from the
floor by her chair。 Slipping large tortoiseshell glasses over the bridge
of her nose； she settled back between the chair's wide wings。 They were
a fort； these wings； serving to keep her sights on the fire before
her； rather than on the darkness behind。
Her ticket to freedom lay in her lap。 Ever an avid reader； Anne had
escaped into books in recent months； when all else failed to calm her。
As a friend； a book had advantages over the human variety。 It was there
whenever she needed it； it vanished as easily； and it never asked
questions； expected witty replies； made awkward suggestions； or
otherwise overpensated for its own inability to right the wrongs of
the world。 She had packed a friend…a…day supply for this trip。 That was
all the pany she needed。
The hardcover in her hand was a biography。 She opened it now； and was
suddenly caught up in the same world she was trying to flee。 On the
inside cover of the volume was an inscription that she hadn't noticed
earlier。 It brought back a storm of memories。
〃To my favorite sister…in…law。 Have a marvelous vacation and be sure to
spend a week with us when you get back。 Maryellen。〃
From the first； Jeff's family had adored her。 They had always insisted
that they would hold Jeff personally to blame if the marriage ended。 In
that spirit； they had stayed so close to Anne's side that she had to
finally beg them for space。 They had eased off； but with reluctance。
Anne's parents had persisted； urging her to give up the apartment and
move back home； but she refused。 She knew that as crammed with reminders
of Jeff as the apartment was； it was better than the Westchester home
where she had grown up。 To return there would be an admission of
failure…failure to make the kind of happy life her parents had。
A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her lips。 Her childhood had
been happy indeed； even those awkward adolescent years when she was an
ugly duckling； by modest accounts。 Oh； her parents denied it； but the
mirror didn't lie； and； anyway； the ugly duckling became a swan well
before the Senior Prom。 By that time she was quiet and graceful；
thriving academically； socially； and emotionally。 Nothing in her rosy
first twenty…seven years had even remotely begun to prepare her for the
heartbreak at the start of her twenty…eighth。
Brought back to the present by a pang of hunger； she closed the
untouched book and went to the kitchen。 She flipped on a single light；
mixed tuna into a salad； put a pot of coffee on to perk； and toasted rye
bread。 With the sandwich plate in one hand and a coffee mug in the
other； she retraced her steps； flipping the light off with a nudge of
the elbow。
Her hunger surprised her。 Unusual for her； she finished the sandwich。
Revived； she sat back in the chair； the mug warming her hands as the
fire warmed her feet； and it suddenly struck her that she was beginning
to feel。 It had been months since she had smelled coffee brewing or felt
the barefoot plushness of a carpet。 But the coffee did smell good。 Same
with the burning logs and the pines outside； and her feet did feel；
albeit smooth sanded oak planks rather than the thick carpeting of home。
Pushing the glasses up on her nose； she stared at the biography； but it
wasn't a biography kind of night。 Jumping up； she returned to her room
for a replacement。 Mystery or romance…the choice was easy。 A romance
might appeal to her later in the week； when she was feeling stronger。
She took the mystery and set off。
The addition of several logs brightened the blaze in the hearth。 Edging
her chair closer； she read from its light； and the book drew her in。
Within a chapter； she was the heroine。 She was only marginally aware
that the rain was ing harder； beating with increased force against
rooftop； windowpane； and clapboard。 It was a fitting backdrop for the
story of a young woman stranded in the deep woods in a cabin not unlike
her oparison； debated switching to
the romance after all； but was inexorably drawn back to the tightly
written piece。 Burrowing deeper into the chair； she gave herself up to
the plot。
She read for two hours； pausing only for more coffee。 The gold watch on
her wrist read eleven； but she was wide awake； stimulated by caffeine；
her new surroundings； and the riveting edge of the story。 As Chapter
Four became Five and then Six； the mystery deepened。 Accidents were
neither accident nor coincidence。 Someone was after the heroine。 No；
something was after her； or so it appeared from the bizarre markings
left by footprints； paw prints； or whatever in the winter snow。 Terror
slowly mounted。 The woman was trapped； hunted； doomed。 As Chapter Seven
ended and Eight began； she hatched her escape plan against seemingly
insurmountable odds。 Then； plicating an already desperate situation；
came the blizzard。 Gale force winds； blinding snows； chilling
temperatures conspired to keep her at the mercy of the wild beast that
stalked her。
With a thud； Anne put the book facedown onto her lap； heart pounding in
vicarious fright。 Mystery； my foot； she mused with regret； this book is
sheer horror！ It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd picked it up last
night or last week in New York。 Here； though； she was alone； isolated
from the familiar； a good three miles from a shred of civilization。
Spooked； it took her a minute to realize that what she'd assumed to be
the thundering of her pulse was the thunder outside。 Lightning followed
quickly； brightening the dark side of the room for a shocking instant；
its blue…white gleam icy in parison to the warm orange glow of the
fire。
Hastily she added several more logs； desperately needing to put the book
down； desperately needing to read on； knowing that she wouldn't be able
to sleep until the last page had been turned and the mystery solved。 She
raised the book again to another deafening clap of thunder。 It vibrated
through the house along with tongued bolts of lightening。
Anne's nerves prickled then； because； in the thunder's wake came another
noise。 This one was more human and threatening。 A car was approaching；
ing nearer； loud enough to be heard above the storm。 It reached her
front door and stopped。
Huddled in the chair； she held her breath。 It was twelve thirty…five；
well past normal calling hours even in the city。 Perhaps one of the
villagers wanted to warn her about the storm。 Perhaps someone was lost。
Perhaps 。。。 perhaps 。。。 A furious pounding came at the door。 Had it
been a gentle knock； Anne might have dared answer it。 But this knock was
angry； clearly no neighbor expressing concern。 At least the door was
locked； though she wished fervently for the dead bolt she had in New
York。
〃Open up！ It's wet out here！〃 The voice was deep； gruff； and angry。
〃Open the damn door！〃
Anne didn't budge。 This was her cottage for the week； and she had the
papers to prove it。 She didn't have to open the door。
But the banging went on； hard knuckles on wood。 〃e on； whoever you
are； open the door！ I'm getting soaked and I can't reach my key。〃
His key？ Was this a mon visiting place？ Had the realtor forgotten to
tell her something？
Feeling vaguely guilty at being warm and dry while someone was out there
wet and cold； she approached the door。 〃Who is it？〃 she yelled； resting
her forehead against the smooth oak。