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“Are we taking your car or mine?”

Scarlett looks up from where she’s kneeling on the floor, tying James’s boots, and squints. “Huh?”

“To your parents’. I can drive, but I’m guessing you have car seats and stuff.”

Realization dawns on her face. “Right. Piper is driving us. My car’s dead, and she has seats for the kids. I’ll squeeze in the back with them, as long as you don’t mind Piper’s terrifying driving.”

“How terrifying are we talking?”

“Did you take out travel insurance?” Scarlett replies with a laugh, kissing James on the top of the head as she stands up. “Don’t worry. She behaves when the kids are in the car. Mostly.”

The “mostly” feels like a lie for my benefit, but I choose to focus on something else. I don’t like being a passenger in the best conditions, let alone on icy Canadian country roads with a supposedly terrifying driver.

“What’s wrong with your car?” I ask Scarlett, shrugging on my jacket and winding my scarf around my neck. Thank god for two-day shipping; I had new boots, a warmer jacket, and everything else I need to survive the cold delivered this morning.

“I think it’s the battery, but I’m not sure. It died a couple months ago. I keep meaning to get it checked, but …” She trails off, looking relieved when James interrupts to ask if he can bring the giant stack of books he’s holding.

She’s been without a car for a couple of months? Has she been walking to work? Nothing is particularly far in Clover Pines, as far as I can tell, but a ten-minute walk in negative temperatures every day is far from ideal.

I don’t get the chance to ask more before there’s a loud bang on the door and a voice shouts, “Everyone in the car. If I don’t get one of Papa Powell’s maple lattes in me in the next twenty minutes, we’re going to have a problem.”

Scarlett shakes her head, a smile playing around her mouth. “Piper,” she says, with a shrug, like that explains everything.

Piper is leaning against her car when we make it outside, a bubblegum-pink Toyota with decals all over it—flowers, hearts, stars, strawberries, bumblebees, and … “Is that a raccoon?” I ask Scarlett, quietly, but not quietly enough, apparently.

“Her name is Elizabeth Bonnet,” Piper says. “And you’re Killian.”

Piper can’t be taller than five foot five, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and narrowed blue eyes as she looks me up and down. I have almost a foot on her, and it still feels like she’s peering down at me.

“Aye. Yes. That’s me. Hi.”

She arches a brow. “Are you a serial killer?”

“Piper!” Scarlett says, her head peeking out of the backseat, where she’s buckling James into his car seat.

“It’s a valid question. He’s living in your house.”

“I’m not a serial killer,” I confirm.

“Have you ever killed anything?”

Christ. “Uh … I hit a pheasant with my car when I was eighteen. I felt so guilty that I donated all of my birthday money to pheasant conservation and I still volunteer at a wildlife rehab center every year.”

Piper’s suspicious look morphs into confusion. “Are pheasants endangered?”

“No. They’re practically pests.”

“Huh.” She tilts her head.

Scarlett climbs out of the backseat and closes the door. “Quit interrogating him, Pipes.”

“I’m just preparing him for meeting the family.” Piper holds her hands up. “I do believe that you’re not a serial killer, but I have my eye on you.”

I’ll take it. I want to make a good impression on Scarlett’s family. If I can, I want to be a part of Caitlin’s and James’s lives, and that will be a hell of a lot easier if the Powells like me—in spite of who my dad is.

“All right, y’all, let’s hit the road,” Piper says, patting Elizabeth Bonnet as she rounds the car. “I, for one, can’t wait to see Landy’s interrogation.”

Shit.