Chapter 2: The Ice Box

The drive from the airport to Boulder was a slow, terrifying crawl through blinding whiteout conditions. The ride-share driver, a quiet older man, gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as the wind rocked the sedan. I sat in the back, my forehead pressed against the frigid glass, watching the world blur into a smear of snow and ice.

By the time we pulled into my driveway, the sun had vanished entirely, leaving behind a bitter, biting darkness.

“Stay safe out there, miss,” the driver said as he helped me muscle my suitcases onto the snow-packed sidewalk.

“You too. Thank you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

I dragged my bags up the front steps, the wind slicing through my wool coat. I fumbled with my keys with numb fingers, pushed the heavy oak door open, and stepped inside.

I expected the familiar, comforting hum of the furnace. I expected the warmth Liam always made sure to maintain. Instead, the air that hit my face inside the house was somehow sharper, more stagnant, and colder than the wind outside.

I flipped the light switch in the foyer. Nothing happened.

A cold dread coiled in my gut. I kept my coat on, pulling out my phone to use the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the breath fogging from my own lips. The house was a tomb.

Before I left for Dover, I had specifically asked my mother to stop by and turn the heat up. She lived ten minutes away and had a spare key. “Of course, sweetie, don’t even worry about it,” she had chirped over the phone.

I walked into the kitchen, my boots echoing hollowly on the hardwood. The digital display on the thermostat was completely dead. The house had no power, and without power, the heating system had failed. The temperature inside had to be in the low twenties.

I dropped onto the living room sofa, pulling my knees to my chest. I couldn’t bring myself to walk down the hall. Down that hall was the spare bedroom—the room Liam and I had spent his last week of leave painting a soft, hopeful yellow. The nursery. We had been trying for a baby. Now, the paint was dry, and the room was as empty as my chest.

I pulled my phone out. The battery was at 14%. I opened the group chat again.

“House has no power. It’s freezing. Mom, did you turn the heat on like we talked about?”

Ten minutes passed. I shivered so violently my teeth clicked together. Finally, my phone buzzed.

Mom: “Oh, Cassie, I completely forgot with all the gala prep! Just wrap up in some blankets, honey. The power company will fix it by morning. We’re heading to the ballroom now. Love you!”

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred with angry, hot tears.

Suddenly, a massive crack echoed above me, louder than a gunshot. The house shuddered. A massive, snow-heavy branch from the ancient oak tree in the front yard had snapped in the gale, crashing straight through the bay window of the living room.

Glass exploded inward, showering the carpet. The howling blizzard instantly invaded the house, bringing with it a violent swirl of snow.

I screamed, throwing my arms up to shield my face.

But the nightmare was only compounding. From the kitchen came a sharp, metallic groan, followed by the terrifying sound of rushing water. The pipes.

I scrambled up, my flashlight beam wildly cutting through the dark. In the kitchen, water was bursting from beneath the sink, flooding the floor with freezing liquid. The cold had expanded the water in the lines, and the sudden drop in pressure had blown them wide open.

Water was pooling rapidly, soaking into my boots. If I didn’t shut off the main water valve in the basement, the entire house—everything Liam and I had built—would be destroyed.

I waded through the rising, freezing water and pulled open the basement door. The air down there was damp and smelled of old earth and impending disaster. I aimed my dying phone light down the wooden stairs. They were already slick with frost and a thin layer of water trickling down from above.

“Just get to the valve,” I muttered aloud, my voice shaking. “Just get to the valve.”

I took one step. Then another. The cold was making my limbs sluggish, my reactions slow.

On the fourth step, my wet boot hit a patch of solid black ice.

My foot shot out from under me. I didn’t even have time to scream. I pitched forward, tumbling down the remaining stairs in a violent tangle of limbs. I hit the concrete floor at the bottom with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded in my skull, blinding and absolute. My shoulder flared with agony. My phone skittered across the wet concrete, the flashlight flickering out, plunging me into absolute, suffocating darkness.

I lay there in the freezing water, gasping for air that felt like swallowed glass. I tried to push myself up, but my left arm wouldn’t support my weight. My head spun dizzily.

Somewhere above me, faintly, the carbon monoxide detector began to shriek—a high-pitched, rhythmic squeal. The backup generator for the neighborhood must have kicked on, feeding exhaust back into the house through a blocked vent.

I pulled my knees to my chest, my right hand instinctively moving to the pocket of my coat, wrapping around the wooden box holding Liam’s dog tags. My vision tunneled. The cold was no longer biting; it was becoming a heavy, sleepy blanket.

Maybe, I thought as my eyes fluttered shut, maybe I’ll get to see him again.

The shrieking alarm faded into a quiet, humming silence.