“She doesn’t set traps,” Stella said, her voice steady in a way that surprised her. “She stages scenes. This is a scene. We’re the actors. And she’s written our lines.”
Hunter moved to the window, peered out into the dark. “The birch tree.” He pointed. “There’s something at its base.”
Through the glass, Stella saw it: a dark rectangular shape against the snow. A second case. Smaller than the aluminum one. Leather, perhaps.
“It’s a—” Hunter began, then stopped. His reflection in the window showed not suspicion, but dawning comprehension. Something worse than a trap: a truth he’d been avoiding.
“An invitation,” Stella finished. She turned the bow in her hands, feeling its weight, its history, its terrible significance. “My mother believes in symmetry. In counterpoint. One case held my fa
