Frame-Up. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

earlier movement, no doubt because she’d been so lost in fretting that other sounds hadn’t penetrated.

      “I think I’ll get a glass of water.”

      “K.”

      Laurel slipped from between the sheets and stood on the scatter rug by the bed. She took a step onto the hardwood floor and quickly retreated onto the rug. The cabin definitely didn’t have heated floors. Probably not even a basement, just a crawlspace beneath. Thankfully, electric baseboard heat kept the air in each room tolerably warm. She sucked in a breath and tiptoed quickly up the hall and into the carpeted living area.

      The glow from the dying embers in the fireplace revealed that the room was vacant. Had David returned to his bed? How would that be possible? He would have had to walk past her to get back to his end of the hall. She looked toward the front door. His boots were missing. Why would he have gone out into the storm in the middle of the night?

      Laurel went to the front window, parted the curtains and peered out. A ghostly wall of white shimmered in the darkness and hid any form or movement. Where was David Greene? Her heart thudded against her ribs as her misspent youth of watching horror movies played gruesome possibilities through her mind. Shivering, she drew back from the window.

      “Don’t be silly,” she whispered aloud. But her arms slid around her frame in a tight hug.

      What if David’s midnight mission had something to do with the murder? Was he out there satisfying morbid curiosity and messing with things he shouldn’t? Should she throw on her shoes and outerwear and go after him? Yeah, right! as her daughter might say. She’d get two steps away from the porch and be unable to find either the cabin or her car.

      She should go get a bottle of water. Her mouth had gone dry as the last pan of brownies she’d tried to bake. But while she was in the kitchen she could acquire a weapon—a knife, a meat mallet—whatever it took to stand between any threat and her daughter. If she was indulging morbid night fancies, she’d be happy to feel foolish in the morning with a defensive weapon under her pillow rather than ignore her inner alarms. She’d ignored those alarms more than once while married to Caroline’s father and lived to regret it.

      In fact, she was lucky she’d lived.

      Laurel headed for the refrigerator. The bottoms of her feet registered the chill as she left the carpet for the kitchen tile. She flipped on the light rather than risk adding a stubbed toe to cold feet. The kitchen was as tidy as they’d left it. Their host’s excuse for nighttime prowling wasn’t the quest for a snack.

      Her gaze scanned the countertops and landed on a wood block bristling with knife handles. Weapons search over. Her hand closed around the handle of the largest one, but a sound at the front door froze her in place.

      “Brrr!” someone muttered and feet stomped the floor. David? Probably. But she couldn’t be certain. And even if it was David, did that mean she was safe?

      What legitimate purpose could he have for sneaking outside this time of night? She slid the knife from its housing and turned to face their host. If he was a threat, she was ready.

      Her knees shook, but she firmed her spine as a parka-clad figure filled the kitchen doorway, face shrouded in a fur-lined hood. Her gaze fell to the items he carried, and her insides went limp.

      * * *

      Clutching a load of firewood in the crook of one arm and a flashlight in the other hand, David took in the stark fear staring at him from the pallor of Laurel’s face. Then he dropped his gaze to the knife in her fist. His jaw clenched. So his efforts to reassure his guests this evening hadn’t reduced his threat level in her mind.

      “Looking for a snack?” he said, forcing his tone as near to natural as he could muster. “There’s some brick cheese in the fridge that might need slicing, but I don’t think you’ll need the butcher knife.”

      Her head snapped back as if his words had slapped her. “No—um— No, of course not. I was just...” She lowered the knife to her side, at a loss to finish her sentence.

      “Let me put this wood down by the fireplace, and I’ll help make sandwiches. I could use one, too...and a cup of cocoa. It’s freezing out there, and big daddy storm hasn’t let up any.”

      “Sounds fine.” She nodded. “I’ll get started on the cocoa.” She moved to the single cup brewer and plucked a K-Cup from the carousel next to it.

      David plodded to the fireplace. He knelt and dumped the load of stubby logs into the box on the hearth. He should be angry with her. Furious even. Or at least offended, but the best he could muster was this deep sadness that weighted the pit of his stomach.

      He rose and shed his parka, then tossed it onto one of the pair of easy chairs with more force than necessary. Maybe he was a little angry. He exchanged his boots for the house slippers he’d left on the rug by the door and rejoined his guest in the kitchen.

      Laurel was standing at the brewer flamingo-style with one foot on the tile and the other pressed against the navy knit of her sweatpants. Unexpectedly, his heart warmed. Was he that starved for domesticity that the sight of a female at the homey chore turned him sappy? The two of them were on little more than speaking terms. Still, the tawny, sleep-tousled hair brushing her shoulders only added to her appeal.

      She turned toward him with a pair of steaming mugs in her hands, and he mustered a smile. “Why don’t you take those into the living room, and I’ll make the sandwiches. Your bare feet must be chilled to the bone.”

      Gaze averted, color high on her cheeks, she nodded and hustled from the room. Sighing, David dug cold cuts and cheese from the refrigerator. A few minutes later, he laid a plate beside her cocoa on a side table. She’d left the living room light off, but the glow from the kitchen conspired with the fireplace embers to outline her form curled up on the easy chair with her feet under her.

      “Here.” He stripped the throw blanket from the back of the couch and laid it across her lap. No word of thanks or eye contact acknowledged his courtesy. What was with this woman? Either she was still petrified of him or her mind was consumed with what lay outside in the trunk of her car. Or maybe a healthy dollop of both. Good thing she had no idea what he’d really been doing outside.

      “I’ll stoke the fire,” he said.

      A jingle stopped him in the act of turning away. He swiveled toward her. A set of car keys dangled from her fingers.

      “I found these on the floor near your parka.”

      “Really?”

      “They must have fallen out of your pocket.”

      “I—I suppose so.”

      “What were you doing with them?” Even in the twilight, her gaze skewered him. “And how did you get them?”

      Heart thumping, he went to the hearth, knelt and began positioning logs in the fireplace. Better if he answered this with his back to her. His face was likely to give him away. “You dropped them. Remember?”

      “Dropped them! I don’t—” Her words halted. “Oh, yes,” she said, tone subdued. “When we found the— When we went outside to get the luggage.”

      “That’s right.” With the poker, David prodded the fresh logs into position on the embers. “Guess I must have stuck them into my pocket after I caught them in midair.”

      “So your excursion into the storm had nothing to do with the keys that happened to be in your pocket. You went outside for more wood?”

      David swallowed against a dry throat. “There’s a box on the porch.”

      “We don’t need the fire in the fireplace for heat in the house.”

      “True, but a little blaze is nice if you can’t sleep and want to toast your toes and sip cocoa.”

      He inserted bits of tinder into the smoldering ashes, and flames began to flicker. If only he could be so successful in calming