I stand on the sidewalk in front of my house, an old Victorian that belonged to my grandmother. Icicles hang from its eaves. Snow shrouds the lilac bushes. The windows are dark.
And once again, Carter Dupree is standing on my porch.
“Good evening, Katy.” He’s as cool as an ice statue, gleaming in the light of my front porch lamp.
I feign disinterest by pulling out my phone as if someone far more interesting than Carter Dupree has sent me a text message. Instead, I start one to Malcolm. I get as far as Carte when he speaks again.
“You have something of mine.”
His words make my fingers jerk. I press send by accident but don’t have time to follow up with an explanation. Beneath the calm tone lies a threat. Without looking away from him, I tuck my phone back into my pocket.
“I don’t have
