Chapter 4: Thin Ice

"His," I said. "Whichever one gets the money."

Stian set his cup down and looked at the clock over the stove.

"It's three and a half hours from Eau Claire," he said. "If he leaves now, he's here at four."

"He won't leave now," Ellie said. "He'll send roses first and drive after."

"Then you have until four to not be sitting in this kitchen."

Ellie waved a spatula at him. "That's the nicest thing he's said all week."

"He hasn't said anything all week," I said.

"Exactly."

Stian took his jacket off the hook and held mine out by the collar.

"Come on," he said. "I have to check the road up the shore anyway."

His truck was a battered green plow with a blade folded up on the front and a thermos rolling on the floor.

It smelled like coffee and cold metal.

He drove along the lake road with both hands on the wheel, and the white water on our left slid by in long pieces.

For a mile neither of us spoke.

I watched the shoreline, where ice had piled up in shelves and thin gray plates, and where the sandstone cliffs hung with icicles as thick as my arm.

"You can talk," I said. "It's past noon."

"I know."

"So?"

"I'm deciding what to say first."

"That's allowed."

He glanced over, and the corner of his mouth moved.

"I'd start by asking what you did with the coat," he said.

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