Rest In Peace by Richie Tankersley Cusick

of snow.
    That’s strange . . .
    Grabbing her purse, she slammed the door behind her. But as she cut across the lawn and got closer to the car, she began to slow down.
    The last thing in the world she wanted to do right now was drive that thing. Not after what had just happened upstairs. Not after what she’d just heard.
    Lucy stopped. She stared at the Corvette and felt tiny prickles of apprehension creep along her spine. Maybe she should call a cab. She had no clue about taxi service here in Pine Ridge— or the drivers. And right now she didn’t trust anybody. Not anybody. Not even myself.
    She took her time going around the sports car, brushing off the feathery snow, shining her flashlight in all the windows. She told herself she was being silly; she told herself she was being safe. When she tried the handle, the door came open, unnerving her even more.
    Why didn’t Matt lock it? Why didn’t he at least tell me he was here?
    Climbing inside, she noticed the air was slightly warm, as though the heater had only recently been shut off. She closed the door and began hunting for the key.
    Both visors were empty. Lucy ran her hands along the floor mats, then rummaged nervously through the glove box. She searched the backseat area but found nothing. Maybe it wasn’t here at all. Maybe Matt had forgotten to leave it. Leaning her forehead on the steering wheel, she tried to stay calm. Snow was thickening on the windshield, and the car was getting cold.
    On a whim, Lucy bent down and began groping beneath the seats. Far back under the driver’s side, her fingers made contact with something soft and bulky, like thick cloth. It had been wedged in so tight, it took several minutes of intense pulling to finally work it free.
    Lucy stared down at the bundle in her hands. By the glow of her flashlight, she began to open the heavy folds of fabric. A blanket of some kind . . . a blanket that seemed familiar . . . covered with dead leaves and pine needles and stained with mud . . .
    And with something wrapped inside it . . .
    â€œNo,” Lucy whispered. “Oh God . . .”
    Most of the jacket was burned away—just charred holes and black tatters—yet Lucy recognized it at once. Remembered the way it had looked on Byron the very first time she’d met him . . . and in that last split second before the crash.
    She needed air. She couldn’t breathe. The car was too small, too suffocating, and she clawed at the door, but it wouldn’t open.
    She didn’t even notice the car key as it fell out of the blanket. Or when it landed on the floor at her feet.
    She only saw the snowflakes turning to ashes as she slumped forward over the steering wheel.

11
    â€œLucy,” the voice was saying. “I’ve got you, Lucy—you’re safe.”
    Someone was holding her.
    She could feel strong arms around her, and her head was tilted sideways, resting on somebody’s chest.
    â€œLet’s get you inside,” the voice murmured.
    I know that voice.
    â€œLucy? Just relax . . . just lean against me.”
    Yes . . . yes . . . I know that voice, but I can’t quite place it . . .
    For a split second of panic, Lucy thought she might be back again, back in the places of her nightmares, back in the shadowy cave, the cold wet woods, the deserted road. But then, as her eyes began to open, she could see a world of pure white, and a door with a large brass knocker that looked vaguely familiar.
    â€œNobody’s answering,” the voice was telling her now. “Where the hell’s your aunt?”
    Lucy barely managed to shake her head.
    â€œThen what’s the code?” the voice asked. “Lucy, can you give me the code?”
    The code . . .
    Weakly, she squinted up into a face. A worried face, but calmly reassuring as well. His hair was sifted with snowflakes, and as a gust of wind hit the two of them, he drew Lucy closer into his warmth.
    â€œMatt?” she