Page 34 of Whiteout

“Sinjin.”

I’m dreaming.

Dreaming.

Dreaming.

Dreaming.

“Shhh. Rest now.”

Okay.

Blinking her eyes open, Breanna glanced down at her chest. Nothing looked out of place. A furry blanket covered her.

Did I put that there?

Reasoning, she pulled it off the back of the couch in her sleep, Breanna put her feet on the floor and gazed out through the floor-to-ceiling glass. In the distance, an animal—a wolf, if she were to guess—ran across the snow-covered terrain.

She wrapped the fur throw tightly around her, and opening the glass door, stepped out onto the deck to peer over the railing. Taking in the unspoiled splendor all around her, Breanna thought she understood what drew George Dalton to stake his claim here all those years ago.

Picking up her bare foot, she rubbed it on the leg of her jeans. “It’s fucking cold, though.”

Turning to go back inside, Breanna surveyed the cozy patio nook outside her room, with its outdoor sofas, fur blankets, fireplace, and hot tub. She could see herself curled up, reading a book out here—or editing one—watching the snow gently fall.

“It’s a shame,” she murmured to herself.

This big house, filled with expensive, beautiful things, was sadly empty. Its rooms unoccupied. No one really lived here.

At five minutes of two, Breanna left her room. She paused at the landing, quickly glancing at the stairs that led up to the third floor, then made her way down to see Derek.

The door to the study was cracked open about an inch. She was about to knock when she heard his voice. Lowering her hand, she stood away from the opening and waited for him to finish.

“Yes, I should have everything wrapped up here shortly.” Snicker. “It won’t be an issue…it’s too bad, she is quite lovely.” The clink of ice cubes swirling in a glass. “See you tomorrow then.”

Silence.

She waited a moment, then knocked.

“Breanna.” He opened the door. “Come in.”

His laptop was open on the desk, a glass of whiskey sat beside it. Picking up a thick file folder, Derek steered her over to a leather sofa. “Would you like a drink?”

“Uh, no, thank you,” she said, taking a seat.

Their thighs touching, he sat down close beside her. “This won’t take long. I point. You sign.”

“What am I signing?”

“Probate documents. They’re formalities, as I said.” He handed her a pen. “As Executor of your grandmother’s estate, you’re acting on her behalf and carrying out her wishes.”

“But I don’t know what they are.”

“That’s why you have me.” Derek squeezed her knee. “I know.”

“Isn’t there a will or something?”

There should be, right? That’s how it went in the movies, anyway.

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