Emma clenched her hands, her stomach dropping and her mouth going dry. She was already wet, and had been the moment the two had been alone in the kitchen with Jackson squared off safely behind the closed door. “I’m doing… I mean,” she cleared her throat and turned around to busy herself with stacking the plates. When she saw they were already stacked, she fisted her hands and simply stared off into the darkness through the tiny kitchen window she had. “I’m not doing anything so… I’m not doing that.”

Emma sat on her bed, the springs of the mattress creaking under her weight. She’d just finished showering and sitting there, with a towel wrapped around her head and her body, she simply stared off at the rusting iron heating vents that sat below her window. 

             Jesus fucking fuck. 

             She bit her lip and closed her eyes, groaning in complete mortification as everything flashed before her for the gazillionth time. 

Emma lingered outside town hall, buffeting herself against the turrets of wind and the chill of the ocean spray that bellowed in the harbor air. She was already twenty minutes late, considering that she’d severely overestimated her ability to trek through the snowy Harbordale terrain. She wasn’t going to lie though, she never thought she’d have the mental capacity to casually hike up a snowy, unplowed mountainside road in the middle of the day. So was she a little bit proud that she’d done that in record speed, without dying halfway? Hells yes.

It had snowed throughout the entire night and the house literally resembled an ice box. Walking downstairs, she swore she saw ice gleaming off of the utensils that she had left to dry off near the sink, and the dishrag was as stiff as a rock. Woops. Well, at least she could say that she’d technically gone fullCanadian and survived winter in an igloo. And all those Torontonians thought they were fancy. Hah.    Wanting a shower, but not wanting to burn her skin off from the sub-zero temperature that the water was probably at, she got dressed and packed her purse so she could get started on her day. As for what had happened in the bed just an hour ago (she’d stayed under the covers before the chill of the room began to seep through the blankets and sink into her skin), she’d adamantly decided that she wouldn’t think on it. 

The car ride back to Hunter’s house was a quiet one, neither of them feeling very talkative after a day that could only be effectively described as a royal clusterfucked shitstorm. Emma felt pretty numb and the only time Emma spoke was when she had to ask him for his cell phone. Hers was out of battery and she needed to call Antony at the pub to tell her that she wouldn’t be going in today. 2nd day on the job, and she was already calling in sick.  Fantastic impression.  

             He didn’t seem surprised, and judging from the way Kat, the waitress who had trained her, grabbed the phone to say, “Fuck. Me. Bitch, you okay? Tell me they’ve got you in quarantine!” she could safely assume that yes, word had already gotten around and people definitely had an idea of what had happened.  

This was starting to feel like her second home. What did it mean that she was beginning to recognize every officer’s face and that her name was a common reoccurrence at the police station? To think that six months ago she was a nobody in a big city, squatting in ex-boyfriend’s apartment. Now she was pretty much the Lindsay Lohan of a small town in Canada. 

Jackson swiped his card on the security sensors at police station, the locks buzzing as they unlocked to provide him access. He’d been woken up around three-thirty, debriefed by Sheriff Stone by four, and had packed up his stuff and dropped off his dog at his sister’s by five. It was just nearing six in the morning as he reached Harbordale, the moon still nestled comfortably in the dark sky.  

“Who is she?” Hunter asked as the patrol officers worked fast to tape off the area. It was dead in the middle of the night, his groin still ached from leaving Emma at his door, and the biting air was doing nothing to cool off his heated temperament. 

             All in all, he was pretty fucking pissed off. No murder in over a century and the god damn fucking idiot had to choose this night, of all nights, to do it? 

“Bitch, you slept with my boyfriend?!”
“I fucking did, you little bitch. Watchu gon’ DO?”
“Say that to my face!”
“What the fuck do you think I’m doing now, you dumb piece of shit tramp!!?”

            Emma rubbed her eyes as she tried to keep up with yet another episode of Jerry Springer. The screaming match on the telly escalated and she turned it down lest it disturb the inhabitant of the room next door to her.            

Surprisingly, she slept soundly. It hadn’t taken her long to fall asleep and when she awoke, her body felt as if it’d been wrapped in a cocoon and slowly rehabilitated overnight. For one, she was toasty and snug, and she hadn’t woken up to the sound of the wind whistling as it squeezed through the tiny cracks in the bedroom windowpane. Secondly, it smelled as if she’d woken up in an alternate reality, where home cooked food was a thing and pancakes didn’t just exist in store bought ready-mix boxes.