Chapter IV — A Cool Winter’s Sting
January 4, 2010
The cold breeze of midwinter’s eve wisped through the air. The light from the moon was consumed by the smoke of the sky. Not a civilization in sight—only faint black shadows on an already black ground, as if it all took place in a cold, endless void. Tunes played between the limbs of cedar trees, orchestrating nature’s song throughout the morning. The air tasted faintly of ash and pine, and the ground beneath the frost crackled with every delicate shift of the forest.
Andrew Noulgates parked his unmarked sedan in the clearing, headlights off, engine still warm. In the backseat, his daughter Sarah sat curled in her jacket, legs dangling, fingers tracing the frosted window. She was seven, bright-eyed and curious, but knew when not to speak. Her father had told her to stay in the car.
“This is business. I won’t be long. Stay buckled in, okay?” he’d said, his voice steady.
She nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”
He’d kissed the top of her head and shut the door. The interior light blinked out, and Sarah was left in the soft hum of silence.
Andrew stepped out and disappeared beyond the trees, where another vehicle idled. Sarah sat still for a while, watching her breath fog up the glass. Then—
Pop.
The crack of a gunshot pierced the morning hush. Birds scattered from the treetops. Sarah’s heart thudded. Her gloved fingers gripped the car door. She hesitated, chewing her lip, then slipped out of the car, boots crunching the frozen ground.
The scent of cedar and smoke hit her nose. Her breath came in puffs as she followed the direction her father had gone. A distant dog barked once, then silence. The trees stood like frozen giants, ancient and unmoving. Her cheeks stung with the cold.
She crept along the brush and peeked from behind a tree.
In the clearing, two men stood. One lay on the ground, unmoving. Her father stood above him, gun in hand, face emotionless. Another man—a third party—looked shaken, his hands raised, trying to explain something, to salvage the deal.
Sarah couldn’t hear the words. But she saw everything.
Sarah didn’t know what it meant, but it burned in her memory like the flare of a match.
She looked down at her mittens, suddenly aware of how small her hands were. Too small to stop anything. The scent of gunpowder and pine clung to her nostrils. Part of her wanted to scream. Another part wanted to understand.
Her father tucked the weapon away, his movements mechanical. Then he looked around—paranoid, precise—before dragging the body toward the other car. Sarah ducked, heart pounding, eyes wide.
Inside the safety of the car again, Sarah sat motionless. She stared at the dashboard, then down at her mittens.
When Andrew returned minutes later, he slid into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror like nothing had happened.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, voice calm.
“Yeah,” she said. She didn’t look at him.
She glanced at his gloves—dark leather with something red at the seam.
But something had shifted behind her eyes. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. Just watched the trees blur past the window as they drove away.
She wouldn’t forget what she saw.
Not ever.