Mulled to Death, page 5
It can’t be a good sign that I’m now seeing and hearing things.
I wait for Annmarie to emerge on the other side of the trees, my pulse racing, but there’s no sign of her.
My stomach flips and I frown, gnawing on my lower lip in worry.
I glance down my own run. Reid, Sage, and Liam are mere specks in the distance now and I’ve no chance of catching up. But that’s the least of my concerns right now.
Another minute passes and, still, no Annmarie.
Then I make a decision I hope I won’t regret. Turning myself perpendicular on the slope, I push toward the tree line, venturing over to the black-diamond slope.
* * *
* * *
The terrain is far beyond my ability.
My heart hammers in my chest and I struggle to keep my breathing even as I traverse the banks of ice and snow, some obstacles nature-made and some constructed by man. It takes me forever, one leg farther down the hill than the other, both skis fighting against what I’m trying to make them do.
I weave between pine trees, clinging to my poles and using them to help me maneuver. At one point I hit a patch of powder and pick up speed.
Pizza slice, pizza slice, pizza slice, I desperately think, trying to pin the tips of my skis together in the signature beginner’s move to bring you to a stop.
Finally, I emerge out of the trees and onto the black-diamond mogul run. While Annmarie handled each bump with ease, I flail over each and every one.
Curses fly from my mouth as my quads scream in protest and my calves burn in exertion. Needless to say, this is not the slope meant for someone trying to remember how to do this sport.
By the time I reach where Annmarie disappeared, the few people brave enough to attempt this run have already gathered. It’s at a particularly tricky turn—called Lockdown Pass, from the wooden signage—before a thicket of pine trees, farther down from the one I cut through. The surrounding trees are lofty, soaring high into the sky, their gangly branches covered in needles and pinecones.
I slow to a stop, finding a gap between people. My blood freezes in my veins at the sight: Annmarie, crumpled on the ground, unmoving, next to a pine tree the width of my torso. She’s on her back, her neck twisted at an awkward angle, face pale in the shadows and her eyes open and glassy. One leg is bent over her body, the ski still attached, and the other is beneath her. Her braid of golden hair is sprawled behind her, trailing out of her helmet.
I finally peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Did someone call for help?” I ask the nearest bystander.
“Paramedics are on their way, but . . .” he trails off, shaking his head.
I negotiate with myself. Annmarie will be fine. She’s far too skilled of a skier—far too determined—to go out like this. Any second now, she’ll push herself up, like she did after her fall during the slalom run at the Olympics. Everyone thought she was out of the competition, but she bounced back, not only in that run, but she blew the competition out of the water in the others as well.
But she doesn’t move.
There are few tracks in the snow, Annmarie’s being the only set to have veered from the moguls and into the underbrush. Nothing more than a series of parallel indents in the powder, but there are strange marks among the trees, as if the wind blew patterns in the snow, and a there’s a smattering of pine needles studded in the ground and surrounding Annmarie like an aura.
The paramedics arrive on skis. There are two of them, decked out in black apart from their bright-orange jackets, and one of them is hauling a rescue sled attached to their poles. They’re all business.
“Move aside, please,” one of them shouts, hurrying to Annmarie’s side. “Back up.”
I’m jostled by other concerned observers, one of them overlapping their skis with mine and almost causing me to fall. I shift my feet, gliding backward to extricate myself from the game of human dominoes, and watch with bated breath as the paramedics try to revive Annmarie.
Minutes pass and no one says a word. On other runs we can hear the whoops of skiers and snowboarders, a stark contrast to the solemn scene before us. If only they knew the woman responsible for their merriment was in mortal danger.
No, Parker, don’t think that way.
The paramedics have an oxygen mask strapped to Annmarie’s face and alternate between performing chest compresses and checking for a pulse. And still, nothing.
I’m no expert, but this can’t be good. I would’ve expected Annmarie to regain consciousness by now. To bring the full force of the Bauer Power and finish her run.
Finally, one of the paramedics speaks. What he says makes my knees go weak and I can’t help the shiver that snakes up my body: “Dead on arrival.”
* * *
* * *
The waiting stretches on like a nightmare you’ve realized is a nightmare but can’t wake from, no matter how hard you flail about or whimper.
I linger near Annmarie, trying and failing to make sense of what just happened. What I witnessed.
More people gather, initially drawn by curiosity to see what all the commotion is, and then stunned into statues at the sight. Clicks and shuffles of gear fill the air as swirling clouds amass from our collective exhales, a beacon marking our location.
The paramedics stand guard around Annmarie. I want to ask if there’s any way I can help, and then feel ridiculous. What could I possibly do to make this better?
The sound of a snowmobile engine cuts through the tension, growing louder until a shiny black, white, and blue beast materializes from around the bend, an arc of snow trailing behind it like a rooster tail. The driver comes in quick—too quick, in my opinion—turning at the last second in a flashy stop.
“Show’s over, folks,” the sheriff says, disembarking from the mobile in a move that reminds me of the Wild West.
She unbuckles her helmet, draping it over the handlebar, and tromps toward the paramedics. Sporting a faux-fur-collared coat with the emblem of the sheriff’s office on the sleeve, khaki pants, sturdy boots, and a no-nonsense expression, it’s clear she’s not one to be trifled with.
The paramedics greet the sheriff—Sheriff Scott, I manage to overhear—and they have a hushed conversation. Sheriff Scott squats on her haunches and drinks in the scene, absorbing every detail with steely eyes, before placing a phone call.
What ensues is more waiting. Torturous to the extreme, surrounded by strangers who are all equally as uncomfortable as I am—both physically and emotionally. I have no idea how much time has passed . . . minutes, hours, days? More officers arrive on snowmobiles and the area is taped off.
Finally, Sheriff Scott pinpoints the pair who first reached Annmarie, which, thanks to my slow reaction and even slower skiing, is most definitely not me. The rest of us are dismissed with instructions to give our names and phone numbers to a waiting officer.
I do so, teeth chattering as I recite my phone number. Then, with one last glance at Annmarie’s crumpled body—so small compared to the entrepreneur and ski goddess I’d chatted with not long ago—and the trees and strange windblown marks in the snow, I make my way back to my own run.
There’s nothing for it but for me to continue down Lillehammer.
It seems ridiculous that the resort is operating per usual when the world has shifted. Back among the revelers on the slope, I force myself to focus, even as every move I make, every flex of my muscles, feels surreal. Because if an accident can take out an expert skier like Annmarie, no one is safe.
I swish back and forth across the mountainside, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Finally, I near the final descent, a plunging slope that leads back to the main chairlift and, beyond that, Silver Creek Village.
I steady myself, quelling my panic, and wait for an opening. I seize my chance. The crisp air whipping my hair and majestic backdrop hold no joy for me. When I finally come to a stop, I find that I’m shaking.
“There she is,” Reid’s voice says. I turn to find him tromping toward me, his snowboard propped over one shoulder. “We were getting ready to send out a search party.”
I drink in his presence, willing it to ground me. I want to run and throw my arms around him, disappear into his warmth and scent. But, alas: skis. And I don’t trust my balance enough to twist and push the fastenings behind either heel so I can step out. Instead, I go into statue mode.
My brother and Sage trail close behind Reid.
“No referee needed to say: you lost,” Liam says. “So, you know, thanks for giving skiers a bad name.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. A lump has lodged itself in my throat. The ski world has lost so much more than our stupid bet today.
“Don’t take it too hard,” Sage says, thinking my silence is from shame. “We can’t all be perfect at everything, and you come about as close as one can get.”
“It’s not that,” I croak, my throat drier than a New Zealand sauvignon blanc. I take a shuddering breath, my eyes filling with tears that cause my goggles to fog.
Reid is the first to realize something is wrong. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Where a moment ago, his tone was playful, it’s now serious. He sets his board on the ground and gently moves my goggles to rest on top of my helmet.
I grip his arms, my gloved fingers digging into the crinkly polyester of his jacket.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say. “Really. But Annmarie . . .” I trail off, shaking my head.
“What about Annmarie?” Reid asks, his gaze anchoring me to reality.
“There was an accident. She’s gone.”
The blood drains from Reid’s face and his jaw falls open in shock. He has history with Annmarie, too, so it’s no wonder he’s taking this news hard. Even though he’d only met her the one time he made her lunch, the interaction left a mark.
Sage comes over and wraps an arm around me. “Let’s get you inside and you can tell us what happened.”
Thoughts swirl through my mind like wine in a glass. Something isn’t settling in my gut, and until I pinpoint what it is, I won’t able to move on.
It’s then I realize what’s bothering me: Annmarie’s accident might not have been an accident at all.
Annmarie is—was—one of the best skiers in the world. It doesn’t make sense that she would get in a fatal accident on a joyride. She’d even been wearing a helmet. How could this have happened?
I shake my head. “No, there’s something I need to tell the sheriff.”
Reid furrows his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re okay? We can call later to report whatever it is.”
“This could be important,” I say, chewing on my lower lip.
Reid gives me a penetrating look. We’ve come a long way in the last nine months we’ve been dating, so much so that I easily interpret the question in his gaze. I’ve surprised Reid with my—we’ll call it grit, although it’s probably more akin to stubbornness—and apparently this is another one of those instances.
To prove just how okay I am, I twist around and click out of my left ski and then my right, hardly wavering at all. Still, he seems unconvinced.
“I saw something, and heard something,” I explain. “Right before”—I gulp, urging saliva back into my parched mouth—“it happened.”
“You were there?” Reid asks, his pallor taking on an ashy hue.
“Close enough. I stopped to watch and then . . .” I trail off with a sniffle.
“I’ll go stash my board and be right back,” Reid says, giving me a shoulder squeeze before disappearing.
“Me too,” Sage says, following Reid.
Liam, however, stays by my side. There’s concern painted on his face and, if I’m not mistaken, disapproval. “Is this really the time to be inserting yourself in an investigation?”
“What are you talking about?”
He balances his forearms on his ski poles. “Aren’t you and Reid supposed to be having a romantic getaway?”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear any details about my relationship,” I say blandly, calling back to Liam’s requirement when he gave me his proverbial blessing to date his friend.
“That’s still true.” He feigns a wince. “What do you need to tell the sheriff that’s so important, anyway?”
“That’s between me and the sheriff.” That he’s even challenging me on this is proof he doesn’t understand the situation. “Besides, wasn’t Annmarie your childhood idol? Don’t you want to find out what really happened?”
“Of course.” Liam exhales, showing a sliver of empathy. He rubs the back of his neck where his raven hair, the same shade as mine, peeks out from beneath his hat and helmet. “It’s just, haven’t you been through enough? You’re not some honorary detective.”
“Thanks for your concern,” I say, jabbing my poles into the ground with slightly more force than necessary. “But you should probably focus on your own Valentine.”
“Oh, I plan to,” he says with a wink. “Unlike you, I actually got mi amor something to show her how much I care.”
I feel as though I’ve been slapped. I grind my teeth. “I hardly think that matters now.”
It’s absurd to think a bit ago I was stressing over something as benign as an unreciprocated gift. Because the thing about facing mortality, even indirectly: it provides perspective.
“You were distracted before this,” Liam says, rocking forward on his ski poles. I’m tempted to knock them out from under him. “And look, I know this time of year is hard on you—”
I cut him off, leveling him with my best withering glare. “This is about Annmarie. You weren’t there, you didn’t see.” My breath catches and tears sting my eyes afresh.
This is a new level of ignorance for Liam. To attack me now, after something like this happens? It’s completely off base. “Sometimes there are things going on with people you can’t begin to comprehend.”
He snorts. “Hate to break it to you, Parker, but you’re not that mysterious.”
“Oh, so suddenly you know everything?”
“All I’m saying is there’s a chance you’re sticking your nose in other people’s business as a way to—I dunno—get some sort of closure for Aunt Laura.”
This strikes a chord deep in my core, but I would never admit that to Liam. “I told you, this isn’t about me,” I hiss, “and pretending everything is peachy isn’t going to solve anything.”
“I’m only trying to watch out for you.”
That’s rich coming from my brother, whose primary solution to problems is to ignore them. “Yeah, well, you have a weird way of showing it.”
Concern flickers in his eyes and he says, so quietly, I almost miss it, “If you need to hash anything out, I’m here.”
I hitch my skis over one shoulder and stalk off before he can make any other empty offers.
Chapter Five
Liam’s words rattle me more than a crusher de-stemmer does a bunch of grapes.
Which is why, when Reid returns to my side, I find myself asking, “Am I out of line waiting to talk to the sheriff?”
We’ve found a spot near a fire pit, rays of sunshine warming us almost as much as the flames dancing beneath the metal grate. Emergency vehicles are parked along the street separating the main village from the parking lot and the chairlift, their lights flashing blue and red. An officer prowls near the chairlift, which is shockingly still running.
Sage and Liam have since disappeared inside the lodge in search of food, it being nearly lunchtime, not that any of us really has an appetite. But I’ve learned, sometimes people need to feel like they’re doing something to help. So, when they offered to track down provisions, I readily accepted.
Reid’s arm is draped behind my back as he lounges. It’s unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. With his hat resting in his lap, his hair is mussed with streaks of caramel running through it, and even in the many layers he’s wearing, you can tell he’s in shape. I catch the way other women eye Reid and sidle closer to him.
“Why would you be out of line?” he asks, his thumb forming small circles on top of my shoulder.
That’s another thing about Reid: He’s hardly ever still. It serves him well in the kitchen, and when I’m craving his touch like I am now. I lean into him.
“Because we’re supposed to be on vacation. We should be, you know, vacaying.”
“We are vacaying.” The corner of his lips twitch into the tiniest of smirks.
“But do I really want to involve myself with the police again? Another investigation?”
Reid leans forward, pulling his arm away. He rubs his chin in thought. “You have to do what you feel is right.”
“What is that?” I stare at my boyfriend, the man who has done so much for me—from helping save my business, to making me an incomparable amount of chocolate truffles, to proving he’s there for me. We both work such long hours, we deserve—nay, need—this time together. “Because I honestly don’t know.”
Reid’s voice is low and deadly serious when he speaks. “Parks, we both know how important witness statements can be.”
Reid rarely references his time behind bars, nor the witness who falsely landed him there. He’s the type who prefers to live in the present. Even so, I know his family continues to dredge up everything that happened last fall. There isn’t much hope of repairing his relationship with his father and older brother, Tristan, but the same can’t be said for his mom and other brother, Ben. They even flew out for the holidays to be with him, to show him they want to be a part of his life.
“If you think you can make a difference in discovering the truth of what happened, then you have to try. For Annmarie. And for you.” He heaves a sigh. “We both know you won’t let it go until you do, anyway.”
