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the handle, and pushed.

It wouldn’t move.

Neither would the kitchen door.

Through the side window, I saw Grant near the SUV. Brooke Ellis, his colleague from Northstar, stood beside him.

I hit the glass.

He looked directly at me.

Brooke reached toward the house.

“Grant, she’s there.”

“Get in the car.”

He opened the passenger door.

Then they drove away.

I went back toward the pantry, one hand beneath my stomach.

By the time I reached the outside hatch, I could barely lift my head.

A light swept across the snow.

Someone called to me, then knelt beside me and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

“What’s your name?”

“Lena. Lena Morgan.”

“Who can we call?”

My husband’s name rose automatically.

Then I caught the rescuer’s sleeve.

“Not him. Please don’t call my husband.”