Chapter 1 - Seventeen Minutes Before Midnight
The terminal smelled of diesel fumes, damp concrete, and the sharp, metallic tang of salt water rolling off the sound. Outside, the wind howled across the dark waves, driving a sleet-laced rain against the tall glass panes that rattled continuously in their aluminum frames.
It was 11:43 p.m. on December 31st.
Miriam Vance leaned her head back against the cold wooden bench, her breath coming in shallow, raspy hitches. Her skin was burning, hot and flushed beneath her damp wool coat, while deep inside her chest, a shivering cold rattled her ribs. She didn't need a thermometer to know her temperature had spiked past 102 degrees; the ringing in her ears and the blurred edges of the overhead fluorescent lights told her everything.
For two weeks, she had pushed herself through twelve-hour days in Chicago, closing a grueling commercial audit for her firm, ignoring the scratchy throat that had slowly turned into a racking, deep-chest cough. She had pushed through the exhaustion because she was determined to make the last ferry home to Bainbridge Island—determined to celebrate New Year’s Eve with Conrad.
Beside her luggage sat three carefully wrapped boxes tied with silver ribbon—gifts she had spent her single afternoon off buying for Conrad’s parents and his sister’s children.
When the bright halogen headlights of a silver BMW 5-Series swept across the terminal pickup lane, relief flooded Miriam’s chest so intensely that tears prickled behind her eyelids. She stood up on shaky legs, pulling her heavy suitcase behind her as she stepped out into the biting wind.
Conrad didn't get out of the car. He didn't pop the trunk.
As Miriam reached the passenger side, the window lowered four inches. The heater inside the car was blasting, carrying the rich, warm scent of sandalwood cologne and leather into the freezing air.
Conrad didn't look at her face. His hands remained at ten and two on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his jaw tight.
“I can't stay,” Conrad said, his voice flat, rhythmic, entirely devoid of warmth. “Emergency meeting. Get an Uber. I'll Venmo you.”
Miriam blinked, her fever-addled brain struggling to process the words. “Conrad... it's New Year's Eve. It's seventeen minutes to midnight. There are no Ubers out here right now. The island drivers stopped working at ten.”
“Don't start, Miriam,” he said, his tone sharpening into that familiar, quiet dismissiveness he used whenever she expressed a need that inconvenienced him. “Something came up at the firm. I have to go back to the city.”
“I’m sick, Conrad,” she rasped, pressing a trembling hand against her burning forehead. “I’ve been sick for three days. I have a fever... please, just let me get in the car. Take me home. You can go back to the city after.”
Conrad finally turned his head, his eyes scanning her disheveled hair, her flushed cheeks, and her damp coat with an expression of mild disgust. “You always do this. You turn every minor cold into a production to guilt me.”
Miriam stepped closer to the door, intending to pull the handle, when her eyes caught something resting on the console between the front bucket seats.
It was an icy-blue cashmere scarf—delicate, high-end, and smelling faintly of a floral perfume that was definitely not Miriam’s.
Miriam froze, her hand hovering over the door handle.
“Whose is that?” she whispered.
Conrad’s eyes flicked to the console, then back to her. At that exact moment, his phone, lying faceup on the passenger seat, buzzed once. A preview banner popped up on the screen before Conrad reached down with lightning speed and flipped the phone facedown.
Miriam caught the first three words of the preview: Are you coming back...
The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. The cold wind cutting through her coat felt secondary to the icy realization settling into her stomach.
“Conrad, please,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “I have a fever. Just take me home.”
Conrad’s expression hardened into stone. “Don't make this difficult, Miriam. I don't have time for a scene.”
Before she could speak again, the window rolled up smoothly, sealing him inside his warm, quiet sanctuary. Conrad shifted the BMW into drive, hit the accelerator, and pulled away.
The rear right tire struck a deep puddle of melted slush near the curb, sending a wave of freezing, dirty ice water spraying across the bottom of Miriam’s coat and her boots.
She stood motionless on the empty curb, watching the red LED taillights shrink into the dark, rain-swept night until they vanished around the bend toward the highway.
Her knees buckled. She sank down onto her suitcase, her body shaking violently from the cold and the fever. With trembling, numb fingers, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed a speed-dial number.
It rang twice.
“Miriam?” a voice answered. “Did you make the ferry?”
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“Blythe...” Miriam whispered, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps as the world around her began to spin into dark, surreal spirals. “Something's... something's wrong.”
Those were the last words she remembered.
