Cam

ELLIE

I thought dying would be better than marrying Conrad Trout, but I might’ve been wrong. I’d wanted to escape his evil clutches and the plans he had for me–I made him sound like a comic book villain–and those of my father at the same time. I’d been naive and stupid about so many things lately, including the intensity of the storm and the closeness of the light I’d seen from my broken down car. Also, my ability to stay warm.

There was a very good chance I wasn’t going to survive the night. Hell, the next hour. I couldn’t feel my toes. Or my fingers. Or my cheeks.

The snow had picked up to the point where I could no longer see the light from the house I’d been walking toward. I was unprepared. I hadn’t thought when I drove off in the maid’s car that the falling snow would turn into the storm of the season.

Turning around, I couldn’t see the car. Shit. I hadn’t had a choice but to get out and try for the house and the safety it offered. No traffic had come by in the hour after the car died. With no gas, there was no heat. I’d freeze if I stayed inside it overnight. Dry, but still dead. The place I saw was real shelter. I would be warm and safe until it let up. So I climbed out and started walking. I’d been out in it for minutes, probably, although it felt like hours. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground now, accumulating too quickly. The night was dark, the blizzard so heavy I felt like I’d been put into a shaken snowglobe. Or were those shivers wracking me?

With my arms crossed over my chest, I tipped my head down, the snow seeping down the back of my neck. With a glance over my shoulder, I knew I couldn’t turn back. My footsteps to follow were quickly disappearing and if I got back in the car, I’d be wet and freezing and still stuck. I swiped snow from my face. I had to trudge on. Hope for a miracle. Because I really didn’t want to die. I just didn’t want to be Mrs. Conrad Trout.