Mind of Winter

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SHE WOKE UP late that morning, and knew:

Something had followed them home from Russia.

This scrappy bit of information had been offered up to Holly in a dream, she supposed, a glimpse into a truth she’d carried with her for—how long?

Thirteen years?

Thirteen years!

For thirteen years she’d known this, and not known—or so it seemed to her in her half-awake state on Christmas morning. She rose from bed and went down the hallway to her daughter’s bedroom, anxious to see that she was there, still asleep, perfectly safe.

Yes, there she was, Tatiana, one pale arm thrown over a pale coverlet. Dark hair spilled over a pillow. She was so still she could have been a painting. So peaceful she could have been—

But she wasn’t. She was fine. Holly felt reassured and went back to the bedroom, slipped into bed beside her husband again—but as soon as she did, she thought it once more:

It had followed them home!

This was something Holly had known, apparently, in her heart, or in her subconscious, or wherever it was inside her where bits of information like this hid themselves for years, until something made her aware of what she’d forgotten, or repressed, or—

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