Free Obsession Falls by Christina Dodd Page A

attic, she found a dusty pair of snowshoes with one broken binding. With the worn jump rope tossed nearby, she could make these work. She packed food; the unopened jar of peanut butter was her blue-ribbon prize. And then … and then good luck caught up with her. While rummaging through the master bedroom closet, looking for long underwear or warm, thick socks or a pair of ski gloves, she pulled down an old-fashioned, padded hatbox and found … a pistol.
    She stared at it. And stared at it. Questions chased through her mind. Why was it here? Had someone hidden it from a curious child? Had someone feared the violence it evoked? Maybe. That made sense. Would a shot from this stop a charging bear? No.
    Would it stop Dash?
    Yes. Yes, it would.
    Cautiously she put the box on the floor and knelt. She picked up the pistol and turned it over and over. It was cold. Sleek. Black.
    When she was a child, she had fired a pistol. Her father had taught her how. Up here, a pistol would be helpful. So helpful. And maybe, with this in her grip, her constant, gnawing fear of Dash would ease.
    A side holster and two boxes of bullets were stored with the pistol.
    She made her decision. She took the pistol, the holster, and one box of bullets. If that many bullets didn’t kill Dash, she wouldn’t need the second box.
    Before she returned to the wilderness, she did check the weather report … and knew she had to save herself now, because a storm was closing in.
    She trekked the mountain, found the stony overhang that she’d marked as a possible winter shelter if she discovered nothing better, and set up camp. And lived through her first winter storm.
    On the first day, she plotted her strategy to contact Kennedy McManus without revealing her identity.
    On the second day, she plotted again, taking notes on everything she could do and everything that could go wrong.
    On the third day, her flashlight failed. She needed more batteries. Or an LED flashlight. She lay in the dark and considered how best to explain to Kennedy McManus what had happened and why she was involved.
    By day four, she was sick of peanut butter and crackers, of groping in the dark, of her own company. She didn’t care about Kennedy McManus anymore, or the kidnapping. Instead she planned, feverishly, her next raid on the Wildrose Valley homes. She wanted books. Novels. Anything to take her mind away from the constant sound of the wind and her own gibbering fear she was going to die. She wanted People magazine, packed with interviews of vacuous celebrities and photos of beautiful people. She wanted, needed, to feel connected to the world.
    Then, in the night, the branch she used as a substitute for the missing tent stake broke under the weight of the snow, and she no longer cared about reading. She cared about being buried alive. She kicked and screamed until she had knocked most of the snow off the tent, and sat up for hours, holding the tent up from the inside, until her arms ached and warm tears trickled down her cold face.
    She wanted to go back down into the valley, but first she had to pack everything to carry with her. While she was doing that, the snow began to fall again.
    At the end of that storm, she built a fire, caught a fish, warmed her last can of soup, and ate gratefully and hurriedly. And the snow fell.
    That storm was the worst of all.
    After five straight days of wind and bleak cold, Taylor woke to hear a dripping sound. She couldn’t figure out what it was. All she knew was that she was hot. She unzipped the sleeping bag and kicked it off.
    What had she done? Hibernated through the whole winter? She could hear the world melting. She stuck her head out of the tent. It was … warm.
    Not really, but above freezing—and dawn hadn’t even begun to lighten the sky.
    What was going on? It was October. Wasn’t it?
    She checked the date on her watch.
    Yep. October. October thirtieth, to be exact.
    “Trick or treat,” she said out loud. “Well, almost.”