Snowfall never stayed quiet for long.
It only pretended to.
Annalise realized that as she stood by the living room window, watching the snow drift down in soft, deceptive layers. It covered everything the same way lies did—gently, patiently, until the truth underneath was impossible to see unless you dug.
She hadn't slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again—the footprint outside her door from the night before. Too clear. Too deliberate. Not Liam's. Not hers.
Someone had been there.
Behind her, the cabin creaked as Liam moved through the kitchen. He'd been unusually silent all morning, his presence heavy but distant, like he was physically there but somewhere else entirely.
"You're going to burn that," she said without turning.
"I know," he replied, then paused before lowering the kettle. "You always notice things like that."
She finally faced him. "Like what?"
"The small details. The things other people ignore."
Something tightened in her chest. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
Their eyes met, and for a second, the air between them felt too sharp to breathe. Whatever had been simmering since her return to Snowfall—unfinished conversations, buried resentment, unresolved feelings—it all pressed closer.
Liam looked away first.
"I need to show you something," he said.
Her stomach dropped. "What kind of something?"
He hesitated, then reached for his coat. "The kind I should've shown you a long time ago."
They didn't talk as they walked. The forest swallowed sound quickly, trees standing like witnesses who refused to testify. Snow crunched beneath their boots as Liam led her off the familiar trail, deeper than she'd gone since coming back.
"Liam," she said slowly, "where exactly are we going?"
"Somewhere I hoped you'd never have to see."
That did it. She stopped walking. "You don't get to decide that for me."
He turned, eyes dark, jaw tight. "I know. That's why I'm telling you now."
He moved again, slower this time, and she followed—against her better judgment, against the quiet voice screaming that Snowfall was no longer just a town. It was a secret.
They stopped near an old, half-buried shed she barely remembered. Time and weather had nearly erased it, the roof caving inward, the door hanging crooked on rusted hinges.
"What is this place?" she asked.
Liam didn't answer immediately. He pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was cold and stale. Dust and snow coated the floor, but not evenly.
Annalise frowned. "Someone's been here."
Liam swallowed. "Yes."
Her pulse spiked. "Recently?"
"Yes."
The word echoed louder than it should have.
He moved to the far corner and crouched, brushing snow aside with his glove. Then he stopped.
"Liam," she whispered, "what are you—"
He uncovered a metal box.
Her breath caught.
The box was old, scratched, the lock broken long ago. He lifted the lid, revealing a stack of papers, photographs, and something wrapped in cloth.
Annalise's hands shook as she reached for the photos.
Her face stared back at her.
Not recent ones—older. Years older. Photos of her walking home from school. Standing outside the diner. Laughing with friends she hadn't spoken to in years.
"What the hell is this?" she demanded.
Liam looked like he'd aged ten years in seconds. "I didn't take them."
Her head snapped up. "You knew about this?"
"Yes."
The word hurt more than she expected.
"You knew," she repeated, voice breaking. "And you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't know it was this bad," he said quickly. "I thought it was just… rumors. People talking. I found the box two days ago."
"Then why are there pictures from years ago?"
His silence was answer enough.
Her chest felt tight. "Liam."
"There was someone else," he said quietly. "Before you left. Someone who asked questions about you. Too many."
"Who?"
He reached into the box and pulled out the cloth-wrapped object. Slowly, carefully, he unfolded it.
A key.
Old. Distinctive. With a symbol carved into it she recognized instantly.
Her family's crest.
Her knees nearly gave out. "That key belongs to my mother."
"I know."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "She said it was lost."
Liam met her gaze. "She lied."
The forest seemed to lean closer, branches creaking softly as if listening.
Annalise's mind raced. "Why would my mother lie about something like that?"
"Because," Liam said, voice barely steady, "this box wasn't meant to be found."
She backed away slowly, heart pounding. "You're saying my family is involved in this?"
"I'm saying Snowfall didn't start changing when you came back," he replied. "It started the day you were born."
The words settled like snow on bare skin—cold, unavoidable.
Annalise looked at the photos again, then at the key, then at Liam.
Someone had been watching her.
For years.
And whoever it was… knew her better than she knew herself.