“She’ll get up,” my father said, pulling the curtains shut after shoving me through our second-story window on Christmas Eve. I lay in the Alaskan snow, ribs broken, fingers going numb, while he returned to dinner and asked for pecan pie. My stepmother told the guests I was “being dramatic.” None of them noticed Lily’s phone was still recording everything....

The freezing air carved into my throat every time my lungs expanded against my fractured ribs. Sub-zero temperatures in Anchorage didn’t play games; hypothermia doesn't come on with theatrical shivers, it comes as a heavy, comforting drowsiness that tricks your brain into believing you’re lying under a pile of warm laundry.

Through the frosted downstairs window, the golden glow of the dining chandelier spilled out onto the snow, highlighting the red drops staining the crust around my fractured left wrist. Inside, Dad raised his crystal tumbler of bourbon. Even through double-pane glass, I could read the arrogant posture of Arthur Carver: spine rigid, head tilted back, holding court like a feudal lord who had just cleared an inconvenience off his estate.

Denise stood beside him, slicing the pecan pie with practiced elegance. Her manicured hands were completely steady. She wasn’t shaking with terror, nor was she reaching for the landline to dial 911. She knew. She had stood at the top of the stairs when Dad shoved me backward through the second-story casement window after I refused to sign over the deed to my late mother’s cabin.

"Emily will sleep it off," I imagined him saying to the guests. "Always dramatic. Always needing attention."

My vision tunnelled. The black pines bordering the driveway began to sway like dark phantoms. If I stayed here, my core temperature would drop below eighty degrees within twenty minutes, and my heart would slip into fatal ventricular fibrillation. No one was coming out of that house to save me. My survival couldn't depend on a monster finding his conscience.

I rolled onto my right side, stifling a scream as bone scraped bone in my ribcage. Snow packed into my collar, burning against bare skin. Inch by agonizing inch, using my uninjured right elbow and dragging my useless legs, I crawled toward the tree line away from the driveway lights.

Every breath sounded like tearing paper.

Behind me, the dining room patio door slid open. The sudden clatter of silverware and festive laughter spilled into the night air.

"Hurry up, babe, it's freezing!" Lily’s melodic voice floated down.

Footsteps crunched heavily on the deck above. It was Peter, Lily’s fiancé. He walked to the wooden railing, holding a lit cigarette. I froze, flattening my face against the icy drift, praying my dark green sweater blended into the shadow of the spruce hedge.

Peter leaned over the rail, tapping his ash. A stray gust of wind blew the smoke down into my face. He looked out into the yard, his eyes scanning the pristine blanket of white where my body had carved a deep, bloody trough.