Derek sat beside me. He didn't look at the window. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Sarah, if you keep making a scene, you're going to embarrass me. It's New Year's. Do you really have to make us a joke in front of the relatives?"
I turned to look at my husband. He felt like a stranger.
No worry in his eyes. No fatherly instinct. Only impatience and cold concern for his reputation.
"Aren't you worried?" My voice trembled. "What if something happens? That's your son out there."
Derek scoffed. "You're hysterical. How could anything happen in a pile of snow?"
A chill that had nothing to do with winter settled in my bones.
From Diana dragging me inside, to Aunt Brenda and Cousin Linda blocking my path, to Margaret's lectures, and Derek's suppression—it was too coherent. Too synchronized.
Like a rehearsed play where every actor knew their lines.
They aren't just negligent, I realized. They did this on purpose.
They intended for Ethan to die in that snow.
Outside, the snow continued to fall. The horse doll had stopped moving—a colorful lump buried in a frozen grave.
Diana glanced at the wall clock, then turned toward the window. "The time is about right... You kids come back inside to eat!"
As the children abandoned their game and stampeded toward the house, I seized the opportunity. Ignoring Derek's glare, I scrambled off the sofa and sprinted into the yard.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Hold on, child. Just hold on.
I clawed through the snow until a small hand slipped from the mascot costume's cuff.
Tiny—no larger than a seven or eight-year-old's. It hung limp against the white ground, the skin mottled bluish-purple.
The crowd pressed in. When they saw the hand, silence fell like a guillotine.
"Is... is he dead?" someone whispered.
Diana dropped to a squat, pressing two fingers to the small wrist. The family held its breath.
Seconds later, she released the arm. It flopped onto the snow with a dull thud.
"No pulse." Her voice was clinical. "He's gone."
Screams erupted from the children. Adults pulled their own kids close, terror etched on their faces.
But Derek's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"Ryan. Guard the main gate."
He didn't shout, but the command was absolute. "Don't let the neighbors hear a thing. It's New Year's—I won't have us become a laughingstock."