If you leave that stray cat in your house, Martha, you'll be smelling her dead owner till spring, the deputy told me on the porch.
The return journey from the mail delivery box was even worse than the trip out. My body was failing. My left foot was a block of agonizing ice, every step a fresh torture. I dragged myself back to the cabin, collapsing inside, barely managing to close the door.
Julian was still screaming from the mudroom, his voice hoarse, but his furious thumping had stopped. Perhaps he was trying to conserve energy. Or perhaps he was just exhausted.
I crumpled to the floor by the woodstove, unable to make it to my armchair. Barnaby, sensing my distress, curled up tightly against my chest, his purr a small, vibrating comfort.
Hours passed. The cabin remained silent except for Julian’s occasional, muffled curses. I drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between the searing pain of my foot and the cold exhaustion that threatened to pull me under.
Then, a new sound. The familiar rumble of Deputy Croft’s patrol vehicle.
He pulled up outside, his lights flashing briefly in the swirling snow. My heart leaped. Had someone seen the fire? Had they called for help?
No. He just wanted to avoid a complex rural dispute.
I heard the deputy’s muffled voice, then Julian’s frantic shouts, explaining his predicament. I heard the deputy’s response, calm, indifferent.
A few minutes later, the SUV engine roared. Julian Kross, free from the mudroom, was gone.
I lay there, too weak to move, too tired to care. He was free, but my letters were in the mail. The clock was ticking for him.
Two days later, the first tremors began.
I heard it from Eldon Peck, who showed up at my door, a nervous, sheepish expression on his face. He held a bag of groceries, as if to atone for his earlier rejection.
“Martha,” he said, shifting his weight. “Heard about your barn. Terrible thing.”
I just stared at him, my face a mask of exhaustion and frostbite. My left foot was swollen, purple, and excruciatingly painful. I hadn’t eaten much, my body too focused on surviving the cold.
“And,” he continued, his voice dropping, “there’s talk in town. Julian Kross. His big land deal. It’s… on hold.”
My ears pricked up.
“The bank. Out of Boston,” Eldon explained, leaning in conspiratorially. “They froze his accounts. All of them. Said something about ‘unresolved title disputes’ and ‘fraudulent filings.’ Can’t get a penny.”
A flicker of grim satisfaction ignited in my chest. My letters. They had arrived.
Eldon wrung his hands. “Everyone’s talking. He was supposed to break ground next month, millions of dollars involved. Now it’s all stopped. They say he’s going to lose everything.”
He held out the bag of groceries. “Look, Martha, I’m sorry about before. I just… believed what those flyers said. He’s a powerful man, and… well, I just wanted to keep the peace.”
He looked at me with what he probably thought was genuine remorse.
But I saw through it. He wasn’t sorry for the truth. He was sorry he’d backed the wrong horse. He was sorry he had to face me now that Julian’s power was crumbling.
I took the bag of groceries, but I didn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t offer a word of forgiveness. Eldon Peck, and the whole town, had abandoned me when I needed them most. Their fear, their gossip, had only served Julian’s purpose.
“Thank you, Eldon,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “You can go now.”
He visibly flinched at my coldness. He mumbled something about checking in later, then retreated, leaving me alone with my bag of food, my freezing cabin, and the painful knowledge that in this world, true help came only from within.
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