1
CHRISTMAS DAY, 4:00 P.M.
Arnie Tenderton spends most of the three-hour drive to the Catskills the way he spends much of every commute these days: composing, in his head, the acknowledgments for his unpublished debut novel. He begins by thanking his family, though few of them are left. He moves on to his former creative writing classmates, recognizing by name those less successful than him. He gives a gracious shout-out to an old mentor he hasn’t spoken to in years. He praises the attorney who guided his research on embezzlement. He skips his publishing team, as he doesn’t have one yet. He finishes with the person most critical to any writer’s fledgling career: the literary agent. Arnie smiles.
He glances in the rearview mirror at the boy in the back seat. Theo’s auburn hair is the same shade as his own. It flops into Theo’s eyes as he brings his book closer to his pale face. He needs a haircut again. Theo shakes the hair away, too absorbed in his fictional world to be distracted by the nuisances of the real one. On the seat next to Theo lies his winter coat, an open bag of Cheetos—forgotten ten pages ago—and a red bike helmet. Arnie’s chest swells as he takes in his kid’s Santa hat and the oversized Grinch sweater they found at a thrift store.
“What’re you reading, bud?” he asks.
Theo holds up his paperback so Arnie can see the cover—another Hardy Boys book. Theo has already torn his way through modern series for kids his age—Wimpy Kid and Dog Man and Dragon Masters—so Arnie dug out the dusty box of books from his own childhood. He was equally voracious in his youth.
“Any good?” Arnie says.
Theo lifts his eyes from the page and nods. He hesitates. “Can I have a brother like Frank or Joe?” His voice is small and cautious.
Arnie opens his mouth to let Theo down. “You know, Theo—”
The boy interjects with a sigh, “Three’s a crowd. I know.”
“Isn’t it nice, living just the two of us?”
Theo returns to reading. Arnie refocuses his attention. Most people wouldn’t risk a road trip in the middle of a snowstorm, but Arnie isn’t most people. He’s not going to let a little inclement weather get in the way of his Christmas plans. If anything, this will make his story more believable. Plus, thanks to the snow, he hasn’t hit any traffic. Arnie loathes traffic, which brings out a rage he otherwise manages to keep bubbling in the background.
Arnie doesn’t like to think of himself as an angry person.
Already the sky is blackening. Stark white clouds rot to violets and blues like blood pooling beneath skin. The farther north he travels, the less Arnie can see. Violent winds blow snow in every direction. Occasionally the lines marking Arnie’s lane disappear, as do the buildings and trees around him. Gusts rattle the car windows in their frames. No matter how high he turns his windshield wipers, they still can’t clear the snow fast enough. “Worst blizzard in a decade,” the meteorologists were saying, about a region that ate snow for breakfast, averaging twelve to twenty inches every December.
Life-threatening weather conditions, his phone had warned an hour ago. Seek indoor shelter immediately.
Arnie drives along the main street of a small town, the final community before he enters the woods. The village is dressed in its holiday finest, but the twinkling lights and flashy garlands do little to disguise the deserted, almost haunted vibe of the place.
Where is all the merrymaking?
Arnie turns onto a winding one-lane road with snow-coated trees standing guard on both sides. His is the lone car in sight. He checks the speedometer, slows his pace from thirty to twenty-five. He should have picked up snow chains for the Prius. He can’t risk veering off the road—not when he’s this close.
His heart thwacks around his rib cage. To calm himself, Arnie reflects on his writing journey. In addition to this latest manuscript, he has written two drawer novels, plus a short-story collection he hopes to resurrect someday. To the uneducated, three books that have failed to find publication, or even representation, could imply a lack of talent, might suggest that the time for their creator to hang up the proverbial towel has arrived. But the initiated know that writing a drawer novel or three is a rite of passage, a paying of dues. Stephen King’s Carrie was rejected by thirty publishers. Twelve passed on Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone before an editor at Bloomsbury bought it from J. K. Rowling for a mere twenty-five hundred pounds. Real writers know that the rejections far outnumber the successes—and not just at the beginning of one’s career. Real writers know that the only way to fail is to give up.
Arnie’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his palms clammy. The snow falls faster and thicker, like it wants to submerge the Prius, to bury Arnie and Theo alive.
He guides his car toward another one-lane road. The Prius’s tires skid on the slippery terrain, but Arnie pushes forward anyway. On his right is a short stone wall. On his left, a guardrail deformed by other drivers’ bad luck or carelessness.
He glances at Google Maps on his phone. One mile to go.
Arnie turns onto a gravel road. The path is overgrown here and barely wide enough for his car. A dense throng of pine and hemlock fifty feet tall surrounds him and Theo. The trees’ needles scratch at the car’s windows as he drives. Between the snow and the serpentine twisting of the road, Arnie struggles to see what’s coming. The forest beckons, extending her arms, and drags them in deeper.
Half a mile to go. “Put on your helmet, bud,” Arnie says.
“Why?” Theo asks, but he does as he’s told, jamming the helmet on over the Santa hat.
“The storm is getting worse. I want to keep you extra safe.”
Theo goes back to reading. Arnie peers into the rearview mirror to check that the boy’s chin strap is latched and secure.
He knows this new book is the most unique he’s written, and he has just the agent in mind to sell it. The trick is getting her to sit down and actually read the manuscript. Arnie understands how swamped powerhouse agents like Claudia Conley are. She represents multiple bestselling authors, including the mysterious Jo Stone, whose five-book thriller series Murder by Severine has sold millions of copies and cumulatively spent more than five hundred weeks on the Times list. Agents like Claudia can’t read everything in their inboxes, so they hire assistants to take first passes and eliminate duds. But what happens when an assistant classifies a gem as a turd? Last fall Arnie submitted his query and manuscript with bated breath.
He waited for a response for an agonizing month. The reply finally came as a form rejection from Claudia Conley’s email account. She hadn’t bothered with explanation or elaboration. Arnie concluded that her assistant must have assessed his work. Claudia wouldn’t have turned him away. Claudia couldn’t resist this particular story.
Arnie will admit that his manuscript’s original title, “The Unraveling,” may have been too subtle, could’ve escaped notice. He has since rectified that issue.
The new title is certain to stop Claudia dead.
Now the Prius is crawling. Arnie’s gaze flicks to the back seat. He triple-checks that Theo is wearing his seat belt. “Remember what you’re going to call me today?” he asks the boy.
Theo nods.
At one-tenth of a mile from their destination, a small clearing comes into view. Through trees, Arnie spots a gorgeous A-frame cabin capped with snow, a triangle floating in midair, two stories off the ground. The wall facing him is made of glass, so he can see inside. The lights give off a warm, golden glow.
They made it.
Arnie takes a breath and crosses himself. He strangles the steering wheel, floors the gas pedal. The Prius protests, tires spinning.
He bears down. The treads find traction; the car lurches. He yanks the wheel to the right at the last second and holds his breath.
The forest stills.
Arnie Tenderton crashes his car straight into a tree.