Page 1 of Hidden
Early February
Ten miles south of Mystery Lake, California
Using the snow poles lining the road as her guide, Ellie Cavanaugh eased her way around another curve. Leaving LA to drive through whiteout conditions hadn’t been her best decision. But the crushing need to get out of town—to run away—had sunk its claws into her psyche and refused to let go. Episodes of paranoid anxiety had been plaguing her for months. Each one worse than the prior. And today? Well, she barely remembered throwing her clothes into the car, sans bag, and taking off. Without a word to anyone.
Her therapist chalked them up to fatigue. She knew better, though. She’d been tired since the age of twenty. Ever since her first movie struck box office gold fifteen years ago. Andtireddidn’t leave her struggling to breathe.Tireddidn’t feel desperate. Or bring with it a sense of overwhelming doom. Nor hadtiredever caused her to hyperventilate herself into unconsciousness. Itmightexplain her poor memory. But these days, the number of things she’d forgotten over the past six months had her worried about early-onset dementia. The possibility of which ratcheted up her fear and dread tenfold.
Even if she didn’t understand the frantic need to leave, though, at least she knew why she’d chosen Mystery Lake as her destination. Her best friend, Sofia Parisi, lived in the small mountain town five hours northeast of LA. Through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through relationships, marriages, and divorces, they were as solid as two friends—sisters, really—could be. If Sofia couldn’t help her figure out what was happening inside her head, then she’d be a safe harbor while Ellie figured it out herself.
Peering through her windshield, she spotted another pole marking the edge of the road. So much snow had fallen since she’d started her climb into the Sierras, and it didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon. Small flakes fell at a steady pace and, as they passed through the beams of her headlights, it reminded her of a scene fromThe Nutcracker. Only she was no snow queen, and there was no prince to take her hand and guide her into a romantic dance. No, instead, she had slick roads, next to zero visibility, and the devastating weight of self-doubt as her companion.
But at least she had four-wheel drive.
Reaching forward, she hit a button on the in-dash screen and brought up her music app. Not wanting to take her eyes from the road for more than a second, she hit the first playlist on her list—a mix of classical music performed by the London Symphony Orchestra. With a sigh, she focused on relaxing her body as she began climbing a long—though not steep—hill. But relaxation proved elusive, and by the time she reached the top, the familiar flutterings of panic rumbled in her chest.
From experience, she recognized the irregular heartbeat and unsteady breathing as a warm-up to the main event. The thought of having another attack, at night and in the middle of an epic snowstorm, did nothing to ease her anxiety. On a good day, an episode wasn’t easy. In the current situation, it could be fatal. If she had any chance of making it to Sofia’s she needed to get her shit together.
Forcing herself to breathe in for three seconds, then exhale for four, she prayed she’d keep the terror at bay. If worse came to worst, she’d look for a pullout where she could ease her car off the road and wait thisthingout. If she couldn’t stop it from happening, then she needed to find a place where she’d be safe.
Ravel’sBolérostarted playing on her sound system as she inched her way down the hill. The long, sweeping, dramatic crescendo comprising the entire piece never failed to give her goosebumps. And as her tires slid, then caught again, she tuned her ear to the romantic, evocative composition, hoping it would occupy her mind even as she kept her eyes trained on the road.
Despite her best efforts to stay focused, though, a movement in the trees caught her attention and pulled her gaze to the shadowed forests pressing in around her. Her heart froze as a beast leaped from a tree and disappeared into the dark night. Logic told her it was an owl. But her imagination wasn’t so easily convinced.
Her tires slipped again on the downward slope, and she jerked her attention back to the road. Her slow, measured breaths now came in rapid, erratic, desperate bursts. And despite the low temperature in the cab, sweat beaded on her brow and between her breasts.
She hated this. Hated that her body was out of her control. And her mind even more so. Why was this happening to her? And how long would she have to live this way?
That second question gave her pause as her gaze once again drifted to the encroaching trees. It had been months since she’d gone any length of time without feeling some edge of despair. And paranoia. Was this to be her life from now on? If her therapist couldn’t help her, then who could? Because one thing she knew for certain was shehadto figure this out. She couldn’t live this way for much longer. It wasn’t really living at all.
The crescendo built, and the music vibrated through her body. Her vision blurred as tears began flowing. Her chest heaved as she sobbed for reasons she couldn’t name.
She wiped her palm over her cheeks then rubbed her eyes. As she did, her car bumped into something, jarring her body. A crack and a long scraping sound told her that she’d run over a marker pole.
She needed to pull herself together.
Sofia.
She needed to make it to Sofia’s. She managed a smile, thinking of her friend’s familiar face and dancing eyes.
And that was the last thought she had before the car began to slide and spin across the road.
CHAPTER ONE
With each passing mile, Dr. Asher Warwick regretted his decision to drive home toMystery Lake more and more. He’d been at a conference in Santa Barbara at a five-star hotel with excellent food and even better drinks. And more to the point, it had been sunny and sixty-five degrees when he’d left. Not thirty-one and snowing like a big FU from Mother Nature.
Not that he blamed Mother Nature. People weren’t exactly kind to her. He could hardly fault her for clapping back every now and then. But he wished that either she or he had made a different decision about how this day would unfold.
At least he only had ten miles to go before he hit his hometown. His hometown with an excellent public works department that regularly plowed the roads during storms. It was hard to keep the tourist industry alive if the tourists couldn’t get around.
He crested a hill and as his headlights fell back on the road, he noted tracks from another vehicle. Judging by the amount of snow that had filled the indentations, he’d guess the car wasn’t too far ahead of him. Downshifting to the lowest gear, he slowed from twenty miles an hour to ten. If he came up on it and couldn’t stop in time, he’d be going slow enough not to do too much damage. He hoped.
The wipers worked overtime, clearing snow from his windshield as he inched his way down the hill. A clump of snow fell from a branch and landed with a thump on the hood of his truck, startling him. Easing off the gas even more, he turned his thoughts to home. He had the ability to remotely control the temperature of his house so he wouldn’t be walking into an icebox. And he had a fireplace. And whiskey. Those two thoughts had him smiling. A smile that faded as his attention caught again on the tracks of the car that preceded him.
His stomach tightened as his gaze followed the lines toward the shoulder. A few feet farther, a flattened snow pole had him clenching his jaw. Easing forward a few more feet, he flicked on the lights attached to the roll bar of his truck. It wasn’t legal to drive with them on—not on a public road—but if someone wanted to ticket him, he’d take it. If he had any chance of locating what he thought he’d find, he needed all the illumination he could get.
The tracks ahead of him veered to the left, away from the shoulder, then back again to the right. Then they straightened for several feet before curling into the telltale signs of a spin.
Asher drew his truck to a stop and turned his emergency flashers on. Reaching for his coat, he once again scanned the road. On the other side of the curving, circular skid marks, the tracks turned to the left, toward the opposite side of the road. He hoped whoever was driving had been able to pull out of the spin. But he doubted it. He’d been driving these roads his entire life and knew how hard it was to correct a spin in the snow.
