Read Online Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online Page A

position. Instead, she froze inside, her emotions barricaded behind a stone-cold facade. She felt as if a thick layer of ice insulated her from all feeling. It had to be that way. If she allowed herself to feel one single thing, she would fall apart. She would be lost.
    She heard a sound behind her and jumped up, terror surging through her. “Fatou. You startled me. I told you to go inside.” In spite of herself, she was glad for the girl’s presence.
    Fatou wore an expression of quiet resignation. Apparently none of this was new to her, or even shocking.
    â€œI am very sorry, madame, ” the girl said. “Did you know him?”
    â€œHe was my driver.” He was more than that, a man whose loyalty and dedication she possessed but was never quite sure she deserved. She knew he had emigrated to Holland with nothing and now lived alone in a flat on the out-skirts of the Statenkwartier district, though she had never visited him there. Now she wished she had. These were matters she would grieve in private, when she allowed herself to thaw out and feel something.
    She grabbed Fatou by the hand and drew her to the shadows of the palace. It was still snowing, the thick wet flakes already settling on André’s unmoving form. “We’ll find a security agent,” she said, leading the way back into the building. They hesitated in the hallway and stood for a moment, listening. The light trill of singing drifted from the grand hall. Her first impulse was to burst in and sound an alarm, to babble that someone had murdered her driver. Then a feeling, like a breath of cold air on the back of her neck, made her hesitate.
    She felt certain the murder of André was not an isolated incident. She looked around, saw no one. “We mustn’t go back in there,” she whispered. “We’ll go to the security office.” There were cameras everywhere, though they’d done André no good at all. She knocked at the door. Getting no response, she pushed at it, expecting to find it locked. But the door opened.
    Sophie hesitated. There was this thing that happened to her sometimes, a cold clutch of awareness in the center of her stomach. It told her when someone was lying, when something didn’t add up—like now. The lights were off, the room illuminated by the bluish haze of monitors and electronic equipment. There were three men inside; at first she thought they might be passed out, drunk. Then she noticed a faint odor of bitter almond.
    â€œGas,” she hissed at Fatou. “Stay outside.”
    Sophie held her breath. She could probably hold it longer than anyone she knew, thanks to her years of swim training. The men wore the uniforms of the Diplomatic Protection Group. She went to the nearest victim, who lay on the floor, and touched his shoulder, finding his body disconcertingly stiff and resistant. She tried not to look at his face—still-wet blood streaming from his nose—as she found the tiny alert device on his lapel and depressed the button, praying it worked as it was supposed to, instantly alerting the team in the ballroom downstairs, as well as deploying an antiterrorist squad from their remote headquarters in Rotterdam. She had no idea how long it would take for help to arrive, though.
    The array of monitors, still glowing dully, showed nothing amiss anywhere in the building. The reception was still going on. She caught sight of a security agent in his dark suit in the ballroom. He showed no outward sign of having received the alert, yet to Sophie he seemed to move with a briskness of purpose that was reassuring. His hand rested on the front button of his suit coat, and he was murmuring into his mouthpiece.
    She ducked out of the room, nearly bursting from holding her breath. Shutting the door behind her, she told Fatou, “I think it worked. They’ll evacuate everyone and—” Fatou was looking not at her, but at a point somewhere past her