Chapter 4: Crossroads
I
The snow falls in heavy, wet clumps, sticking to the windshield and turning to slush under the tires. The roads are slick, and more than once, Donna feels the car slide beneath her, threatening to send her into a spin. But she keeps her hands steady on the wheel, her eyes focused on the road ahead.
Her knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel. She doesn't know what she's doing, not really. All she knows is that she can't sit by and do nothing anymore. She can't keep letting people hurt her family. Not when she has the means to stop it.
Donna pulls the car to the side of the road, just in view of the Carter house. She kills the engine and sits in the silent darkness, staring out at the snow-covered landscape. The house is a hulking shape in the distance, windows dark, street deserted.
Ethan Carter is probably sleeping soundly, dreaming of football glory and college scholarships. His parents are likely curled up in their bed, oblivious to the pain their son has caused. The pain they've perpetuated.
Donna's hand trembles as she reaches for the gun, nestled in the glovebox. She wraps her fingers around the cold metal, feeling its weight in her palm.
"Nate, if you're up there," she whispers, "please stop me."
She waits, holding her breath, hoping for a sign, a whisper, anything. But there's only silence. The wind howls, the snow continues to fall, and Donna is left with the weight of her decision pressing down on her.
With a shaky breath, she opens the car door and steps out into the cold Montana night.
II
The pounding on the door comes just after three in the morning. Stan Carter's been asleep for less than an hour. He hasn't even started dreaming yet. But the sound wrenches him out of bed like a fish hook yanking a bass out of the water. Groggy and disoriented, he sits up, rubbing his eyes. He's a big guy, tall, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. His hair is more grey than brown these days, but he's still solid. A former Marine. He's got a square jaw and a nose that's been broken at least once. There are lines around his gray eyes, the creases of a man who's spent too many years squinting into the sun.
He glances over at his wife, Karen, who's sleeping beside him, her blonde hair spread out on the pillow. She stirs, frowning, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. "Go back to sleep," he murmurs. "It's probably just one of the boys coming home from a party."
She nods and rolls over. Stan swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, stretching. The room is dark, and quiet, he can't even make out the ticking of the bedside clock, and that's when he realizes the power's gone out. It's not the first time; the weather in Riverstone is unpredictable. Last winter, a storm had left them without electricity for three days. Stan had kept the wood stove burning round the clock, and they'd made do.
But now, as he stumbles down the hall in his boxers and a white undershirt, he can't help but feel uneasy.
The pounding comes again, loud and insistent, echoing through the house like a gunshot. Stan's heart rate spikes, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knows the sound of trouble when he hears it. He's spent enough time in war zones, in back alleys, to recognize the signs. And this, this feels like the beginning of a bad night.
He reaches the front door and peers through the peephole. The porch is dark, the security light that normally shines down on visitors is dead. He can just make out the shadow of a figure, huddled and indistinct. Stan hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. His gun is in the bedroom, and he briefly considers going back for it. But then the pounding comes again, and he knows he needs to deal with this now, before it escalates.
He unlocks the deadbolt and yanks the door open, ready to confront whoever's on the other side. But what he sees stops him cold. It's not a drunk teenager or a disgruntled neighbor. It's a man, dressed in a sharp suit and a black trench coat, the kind of guy Stan would expect to see in a boardroom, not on his porch in the middle of the night. The man's hair is slicked back, and he has a look about him that Stan can't quite place. It's a mix of arrogance and determination, a kind of confidence that comes from having the world at your feet.
"Who the fuck are you?" Stan demands.
"Harvey Specter," the man says, as if that explains everything. As if his name is supposed to mean something.
"So?" Stan crosses his arms, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "It's the middle of the night. What the hell do you want?"
Harvey Specter doesn't seem bothered by Stan's attitude. In fact, he looks almost amused. "I'm an attorney," he says, pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket and holding it out. "I represent Madison Paulsen."
Stan stares at the paper, refusing to take it. "What the fuck?" he says. "Are you trying to serve me a subpoena in the middle of the night?"
"No," Harvey says. "This isn't a subpoena. It's a civil complaint. A notice that we're suing your son, Ethan Carter, for sexual assault."
Stan's eyes narrow, his jaw clenches. He feels a hot flush of anger spread across his face. "You've got some nerve," he spits. "Showing up here like this, making these kinds of accusations. The DA said there's no evidence. That there's nothing to prosecute."
Harvey shrugs. "That may be so, but that doesn't mean we can't pursue justice in civil court. And that's exactly what we're doing."
Stan takes a step closer, looming over Harvey. He's a big guy, and he knows how to intimidate people. But Harvey doesn't flinch. He just meets Stan's gaze, unblinking. "I don't know who the fuck you think you are," Stan says, his voice low and dangerous. "But you're not going to come into my home and threaten my family. I won't let that happen. You have no idea who you're fucking with."
Harvey doesn't move, doesn't back down. He just tilts his head slightly, as if he's studying Stan, sizing him up. "Actually," he says, his voice still calm. "I know exactly who I'm fucking with. A bully. A thug. A man who thinks he can do whatever he wants, to whomever he wants, without consequences. But I'm here to tell you that those days are over. Your son is going to be held accountable for his actions. And when I'm done with him, he's going to wish he'd never laid a hand on Madison Paulsen."
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving Stan standing in the doorway, his fists clenched, his breathing ragged. As he watches the attorney disappear into the night, Stan feels something he hasn't felt in a long time. Fear.
III
Ethan Carter stands at the top of the stairs, his hands gripping the railing. His eyes are wide, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He's a tall kid, 6'3" and broad-shouldered, the kind of kid who's been playing football since he was in diapers. His sandy blond hair is disheveled, sticking up in tufts from sleep. He's wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and a Riverstone High School t-shirt. "Dad?" he says. His voice is hoarse, cracking.
His father doesn't look at him. Doesn't even acknowledge his presence. Instead, he stalks back to the bedroom, his bare feet thudding on the wooden floors. Ethan watches, his heart pounding in his ears, as the bedroom door slams shut. He can hear the muffled sound of his parents' voices, the anger and the worry, the accusations and the denials.
He waits, listening, his mind racing. He thinks about the girl, Madison. How she'd smiled at him, laughed at his jokes, pressed herself up against him at the party. How she'd led him on, made him think she wanted it. And how, when he'd tried to push things further, she'd panicked, cried rape, ruined his whole fucking life. Or at least, that's the story he's told himself, the narrative he's constructed to make sense of it all.
But now, standing at the top of the stairs, listening to the echoes of his parents' fight, he's not so sure. The attorney's words ring in his ears, bouncing around in his skull like a pinball. Sexual assault. Civil suit. The guy looks like he's never even broken a sweat, let alone lost a fight. He has that big city arrogance, the kind that says he knows he's smarter than everyone else. It makes Ethan want to punch something. So he does. He balls up his fist and slams it into the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster, the pain radiating up his arm.
"Bitch," he mutters, but his voice is shaking, and he's not sure who he's talking about. Madison or the lawyer. The girl who dared to say no, or the man who's come to make him pay for it.
Downstairs, the fight rages on. Ethan hears his mother's voice rise, high and shrill, like the screech of a wounded animal. His father responds, low and angry. He hears them arguing about lawyers, about money, about how they're going to get through this. And part of him, a small, quiet part, wants to go to them, to tell them the truth, to admit what he did. But the larger, louder part of him, the part that's been groomed to be the star, to be the one everyone cheers for, tells him to keep his mouth shut, to ride it out, to wait for the storm to pass. After all, it's not like he did anything wrong. Not really. She wanted it, didn't she? And besides, there's no proof. No evidence. The DA dropped the charges. This is just a scared little girl and a scumbag lawyer trying to shake them down for a quick buck. That's all.
But still, as he lies back down, pulling the covers up to his chin, listening to the sound of his parents fighting downstairs, he can't help but think about the look on the lawyer's face. The confidence in his eyes. The way he'd spoken to his father, not with deference or respect, but with a kind of cool, detached determination. Like he was on a mission, and no one, not even Stan Carter, was going to stop him.
IV
The storm has picked up by the time Harvey exits the Carter house, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of snow that coats the ground. The wind howls through the trees, whipping up a vortex of white that obscures his vision. He tugs his collar higher, already regretting his decision to come to this godforsaken town. Montana. Of all the places he could have been dragged to, it had to be fucking Montana.
Movement catches his eye – a flash of color against the white. At first, he thinks it's just the wind playing tricks with the snow, but then he sees her. Donna Paulsen, standing at the edge of the yard, half-hidden by a cluster of pine trees, her red hair whipping wild in the wind. She's wearing what looks like a black parka, and her hands...
Harvey feels his stomach drop. In her hands, pointed at the ground but unmistakable, is a gun.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his breath fogging in the cold air. For a split second, he considers walking away. This isn't his problem. He's a corporate lawyer, not a hostage negotiator. But something keeps his feet planted firmly in the snow.
"Let me guess," he calls out, his voice cutting through the howling wind. "You're just out for a midnight stroll with your firearm?"
She startles, the gun jerking slightly in her hands. Harvey instinctively takes a step back, his hands raising slightly. For a moment, they just stare at each other, the snow swirling around them. Her red hair looks like a flame in the darkness, her face pale and drawn.
"Harvey?" Her voice is hoarse, confused. "What are you..." She blinks, as if trying to clear her vision. "What are you doing here?"
Harvey takes a careful step forward, snow crunching under his Italian leather shoes. "Apparently stopping you from making the biggest mistake of your life." He gestures at the gun. "Is that thing loaded?"
Donna's jaw tightens. "Yes."
"Then you're an even bigger idiot than I thought." His words are harsh, but his tone isn't. "You really want to leave your kids without their mother? Because that's exactly what's going to happen if you pull that trigger."
"You don't understand –"
"Actually, I do," Harvey cuts her off. "You're angry. You want justice. But this?" He gestures at the gun again. "This isn't the answer. Trust me, I'm a lawyer. Shooting people tends to create more problems than it solves."
"Oh, now you're a lawyer?" she snaps. "Because when my daughter needed one, all you could be bothered to do was send some kid who looks like he just graduated high school. If he even graduated at all."
"That 'kid' is a damn good attorney," Harvey fires back. "And he's out here trying to help you. Which is more than I can say for you, standing here with your finger on the trigger like a goddamned vigilante."
Donna's expression shifts, from anger to something else. Defeat? Resignation? Harvey can't quite read her. She's a complicated woman, Donna Paulsen. He can see the weight of the world on her shoulders, the stress lines around her eyes. He wonders how long she's been carrying this burden, and why it's finally pushed her over the edge.
"Look," he says, his tone softening. "I get it. You're tired of the bullshit. You want to make someone pay for what happened to Madison. But this isn't you."
She snorts, a short, bitter sound. "You don't know me."
"I know you care about your kids. I know you'd do anything for them. And I know that if you pull that trigger, it'll break them." He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. "Is that really what you want?"
She's silent, the only sound is the wind whipping through the air. Harvey can see the conflict in her eyes, the war between anger and love, between justice and mercy. Her hand wavers, just slightly. "I can't let him get away with this, Harvey. I can't."
"I know." Harvey takes another step towards her, close enough now to see the tears freezing on her cheeks. "But this isn't the way. I've dealt with enough criminals to know that the law, as imperfect as it is, is the best weapon we have. You shoot him, and it's game over for everyone. Your family, his family, this whole town. It won't change what he did to Madison. It won't make her any safer. And it won't bring him to justice. But if we do this the right way, if we build a case and take him down in court, that's how we win. I've already served him the civil suit, and trust me, he's scared. We've got him on the ropes. All we need is a little time, and a little faith, to knock him out."
She looks up at him, and for the first time since he met her, she seems small, fragile. "You really think you can win this?"
"I don't lose. That's why you're blackmailing me, remember?" A ghost of a smile plays across Harvey's lips. "So, what do you say? You ready to put that thing away and let me do my job?"
Donna looks down at the gun, as if seeing it for the first time. She's shivering now, from the cold or the weight of her actions, Harvey can't tell. Slowly, carefully, she lowers the weapon, clicking the safety on. She ejects the magazine, then the bullet in the chamber. It lands in the snow with a soft thump.
She looks up at Harvey, her eyes shining with a mix of fear and hope. She hesitates for a moment longer, then places the gun and magazine into his outstretched hand, surrendering her burden to the only person who might be able to carry it for her.
He wraps his fingers around the cool metal, and for a moment, they stand there, the gun between them, the snow still falling.
"I just wanted to protect her," she whispers.
"You still can," he says. "Just not with a bullet."
Donna nods, her eyes shining with tears. Harvey slips the gun into his pocket, feeling the weight of it against his hip.
"Come on," he says. "Let's get out of this snow."
He takes Donna by the arm, leading her away from the Carter house and toward his car. She follows him willingly, her movements heavy and sluggish, as though she's wading through deep water. As they approach the car, Harvey opens the passenger door for her, helping her inside. She slumps in the seat, her eyes vacant, her mind somewhere far away.
Harvey climbs into the driver's seat, the snow melting on his coat and forming small puddles on the leather. He turns the car on, the engine rumbling to life, the heater kicking in and blasting warm air into the cabin. For a moment, they sit in silence, the wind and snow outside creating a cocoon around them.
Finally, Donna speaks. "Thank you," she whispers. "For stopping me."
Harvey nods, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He has no response to that. No clever quip or cutting remark. Just a heavy sense of responsibility and the weight of the gun in his pocket. He doesn't look at her, but he can feel her gaze on him, searching. He keeps his eyes forward, his expression neutral, trying to distance himself from the emotions roiling inside him.
Harvey Specter doesn't do feelings. He doesn't get emotionally attached. That's been his rule since the day he walked into Jessica Pearson's office and decided to become the best closer in New York. Emotions cloud judgment, make you weak, make you vulnerable. He's built his entire career on being the guy who can walk away, who can make the hard calls without letting his heart get in the way. But sitting here, in this rental car in the middle of a Montana snowstorm, with a gun in his pocket and a desperate mother beside him, he feels something dangerously close to empathy.
Minutes pass, the snow continues to fall, and the wind howls like a wounded animal. But inside the car, there's only silence. Harvey stares unseeingly at the terrain, his hands tight on the wheel. Beside him, Donna sits motionless, her face pale in the glow of the dashboard lights.
"You can drop me off at my car," she says finally, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "I left it up the road, at the trailhead."
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "You sure that's a good idea?"
She shrugs, her posture tense. "What's the alternative?"
"I can take you home."
"No. I can drive myself."
He hesitates, then nods. He understands her need for control. She's a woman who's been pushed to the edge, who's been forced to take drastic measures to protect her family. And now, she's clinging to what little power she has left, even if it's just the illusion of it.
He pulls up beside her car, an old, battered Subaru that looks like it's seen better days. She reaches for the door handle, then hesitates. "Where will you go?"
"Kalispell," he says. "There's a Marriott. No five-star, but it'll do." He tries to inject a note of humor into his voice, but it falls flat.
"In this weather?"
He shrugs. "I'm a good driver." It's a lie. He's a city guy, not used to driving in snow. But he doesn't want to stay in Riverstone, not when the Carters and their goon squad are probably already planning their revenge. He needs to put some distance between himself and this place, at least until he has time to figure out his next move.
"Come home with me," Donna says suddenly. It's not an invitation, not really. It's more like a plea, a desperate attempt to keep him close. To not let him slip away into the night, back to New York, to a place where he'll forget about her and her family.
Harvey stares at her for a long moment, weighing his options. The snow is getting worse, and the idea of driving to Kalispell in these conditions isn't exactly appealing. Even from here, he can barely make out the road through the swirling white. And he doesn't want to end up dead in a ditch, especially not in a place like Montana.
He glances over at her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the wildness in her eyes. She's a mess, that much is clear. And she's scared, even though she's trying to hide it. He sees the fear in her eyes, in the way she keeps glancing back at the Carter house, as if expecting them to come bursting through the door at any moment, guns blazing.
He knows he should leave, should get the hell out of this town. But there's something about her that tugs at him, something that makes him feel protective. It's a feeling he's loath to admit. But it's there, like a knot in the pit of his stomach.
He sighs. "Alright. Lead the way."
V
Donna kills the engine but doesn't move, watching in her rearview mirror as Harvey's rental car comes to a stop behind her. The house is dark and quiet, not even the glow of the porch light to welcome her home. She thinks of her kids inside, asleep and unaware of the storm raging around them. Her chest tightens. What kind of mother goes out in the middle of the night with a gun, leaving her children alone?
A tap on her window makes her jump. Harvey stands there, snow collecting on his shoulders, looking like he's stepped out of a GQ photoshoot despite the hour and the weather. The contrast between his perfect suit and the backdrop of her weathered farmhouse would be comical if she weren't so exhausted.
She opens the door and steps out, shivering in the cold. She doesn't look at him as they trudge through the snow to the front door. Her boots crunch loudly in the frozen silence. He's close behind, the warmth of his body palpable in the icy air.
Donna pulls her keys from her pocket and fumbles with the lock, her fingers numb. The moment she opens the front door, Eira bounds toward them, her white fur almost invisible against the snow. The Great Pyrenees circles Donna first, checking her over, before turning curious eyes to Harvey. To Donna's surprise, Eira immediately approaches him, nudging his hand with her nose. Harvey looks uncertain for a moment before giving her a tentative pat on the head.
"Traitor," Donna murmurs, stepping into the warmth of the house and toeing off her boots. She's grateful for the reprieve from the cold, but the silence inside presses down on her. The power's still out, it seems. She moves to flip the switch for the entryway light before remembering. "Damn," she mutters, casting a glance toward the stairs, half expecting one of her kids to appear, bleary-eyed and questioning. But they remain mercifully asleep, at least for the moment.
Harvey brushes the snow from his coat and hangs it on the hook beside the door, his movements stiff and awkward. He's clearly out of his element here. Donna watches him, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of her failed confrontation with Ethan Carter. Now, in her own home, the gravity of her actions crashes down on her. She could have ruined everything—the case, her family's safety. And yet, Harvey Specter, the man whose reputation precedes him, is the one who stopped her. She's not sure whether to feel grateful or embarrassed.
"You're shivering," Harvey says, his voice cutting through the quiet.
"I'm fine," Donna replies, even as another tremor runs through her. It's true; she's not cold anymore, but her body can't seem to settle down after what just happened, like a live wire flapping in the wind. Every sound makes her jump—the creak of the floorboards beneath their feet, Eira's nails clicking on the hardwood, the relentless howling of the storm outside.
Harvey eyes her skeptically. "Right," he says. "I'm sure." His tone is dry, and it grates on her nerves. She turns away, moving into the living room. The fire she built before leaving has burned down to glowing embers. She adds a log and pokes at the ashes until the flames flicker to life again.
She hears Harvey's footsteps behind her, the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. She rises from her crouch and turns to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do you want something to drink?" she asks. "I could make some tea, or if you need something stronger, I've got..." She trails off, realizing she has no idea what she's got. Nate had been the one to stock their liquor cabinet. It had never been her domain. But Nate is gone, and now it's up to her to play the host, at three in the morning, to a man who is technically her attorney, even if she's blackmailing him.
Harvey regards her with an unreadable expression. She can't tell if he's judging her, or if he's simply taking her in.
"Something stronger would be good," he says finally. He seems hesitant to ask for anything, as if the very act of accepting her offer is a concession of some sort. But then he shrugs and adds, "It's been a hell of a night."
Donna nods and heads for the kitchen, Eira following close behind. She flicks the light switch out of habit before remembering the power's still out. She grabs a candle from the windowsill, lights it, and uses it to illuminate her search through the cabinets. Her hand hovers over a bottle of bourbon before landing on Nate's favorite: a fifteen-year-old Macallan. It seems only fitting, she thinks, as she lifts the bottle. As though Nate is here, in some way, toasting the man who saved her from making a colossal mistake.
When she returns to the living room, Harvey is standing by the fireplace, gazing at the photos on the mantle. He lingers on one particular photo. It shows Nate in his dress uniform at the department's annual picnic, smiling that crooked smile of his, his arm around a younger version of herself. Maddie sits on his shoulders, laughing. Ty is there, too, his grin missing front teeth.
Donna watches Harvey take in the scene, his expression inscrutable. The picture was taken a lifetime ago, when her biggest worries were whether they'd make their Saturday morning tee-ball game or if she could persuade Nate to take her dancing in the city. Before her husband's death. Before her daughter was raped. Before the town turned against them. She wonders what he sees in the image. A happy family? A broken woman and her traumatized children? A client?
"He died six years ago," she says, holding out his drink. "Fire department. Line of duty."
Harvey takes the glass but doesn't offer condolences or platitudes, for which she's grateful. Instead, he says, "Must have been hard, raising two kids on your own."
Donna takes a long sip of whiskey, letting it burn down her throat. She thinks about Nate, about his last call. About how he gave his mask to a trapped kid, how he told his crew he'd be right behind them. How he wasn't. How she got the call at three in the morning, just like tonight, the fire department chaplain and a chief officer at the door, their faces solemn, their words meaningless. How Ty crawled into bed with her later that morning, both of them sobbing. How Maddie locked herself in the bathroom and refused to come out. Some days, the anger feels like it might choke her – anger at him for being so goddamn noble, for leaving her alone to face all of this. Anger at herself for not stopping him that night. For not telling him to quit the job before it killed him. It's a familiar anger, a grief she's carried with her for years now. She knows it won't fix anything. But it's easier to carry than the guilt. Easier to carry than the love.
Harvey moves to the window nearest the fireplace, looking out at the storm. He sips his whiskey slowly, his eyes distant. In the reflection of the glass, she studies his profile – the sharp jaw, the carefully controlled expression. He's nothing like the men in Riverstone, with their flannel shirts and calloused hands and weather-beaten faces. He's polished, precise, every inch of him calculated for maximum effect. And yet there's something else there, something in the way he'd appeared tonight exactly when she needed him. Something in the way he'd stopped her from crossing a line she could never uncross. Something that feels inexplicably right, as if their paths were always destined to collide. It's a ridiculous notion, of course, one born of exhaustion and loneliness and the terror of nearly losing everything. But it lingers nonetheless.
She takes a step toward him, then another, until she's standing beside him. The only sound is the crackling of the fire and the wind rattling the window panes. She can see their reflections in the glass, like ghosts superimposed over the swirling snow outside. It's a strange image, the two of them together, a pair of unlikely allies in a war neither of them asked for.
"The guest room is down the hall," she says finally, breaking the silence. "First door on the left. Bathroom's just across – there are clean towels in the cabinet if you want to shower."
He nods, his gaze still fixed on the window. She hesitates, wondering if she should say something more. But what is there to say? Thank you for stopping me from ruining my life? I appreciate you taking our case even though I threatened you? I'm glad you're here, however briefly, because I feel like I'm losing my mind? None of it seems sufficient, and so she simply nods and turns toward the stairs. Eira starts to follow, but Donna stops her with a glance.
"No, Eira, you stay here," she murmurs. "Keep an eye on our guest."
Eira cocks her head, then settles down in front of the fireplace with a sigh. Harvey raises an eyebrow at this, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Is that really necessary?" he asks.
Donna shrugs. "You're a stranger in my house. And my daughter's been through enough. She doesn't need strange men wandering around in the middle of the night." Her voice is light, but there's a thread of steel running through it. Harvey might have saved her from making a fatal mistake, but he's still a virtual unknown, his motives unclear. He might be handsome, might even be charming, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. There are predators everywhere.
Harvey turns from the window, facing her fully. "I assure you, the only wandering I'll be doing is in search of decent coffee in the morning." He pauses, glancing around the kitchen. "I don't suppose you have an espresso machine hidden away somewhere?"
"Fresh out," Donna says. "We drink our coffee black here in Riverstone. Like our souls."
"Ah yes, the famous Montana breakfast – coffee and existential dread."
"Don't forget the side of crushing despair."
"A veritable feast."
They share a small smile at that, and Donna feels something shift between them, some of the tension easing. He's not a friend, and he's far from being a hero. But he's an ally, at least for now. And that's more than she had yesterday.
"Right, well," she says. "I guess I should..." She gestures at the stairs, the guest room, the whole impossible situation they've found themselves in.
"Good night, Donna." Harvey inclines his head, and something about the way he looks at her sends an unexpected shiver down her spine. But then he's turning away, taking his whiskey and moving toward the guest room, Eira trotting behind him.
Donna watches him go, her emotions a tangled knot. She's grateful to him, she really is. But gratitude is a dangerous thing. It makes you vulnerable. It opens you up to disappointment. And she's had enough of that to last a lifetime. She takes a shaky breath, drains the last of the whiskey, and heads upstairs.
The hallway is dark and silent as she pads toward her room, the floorboards creaking softly beneath her feet. The house is old, settled deep into the bones of the mountain it sits on, and its noises are as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. She knows each groan, each sigh, each whisper of the wind through the eaves. It's a language she learned long ago, when Nate first carried her across the threshold, his face split in a wide grin. When they painted the walls, made love on the hardwood floors, dreamed about the life they'd build together. A life that ended too soon in smoke and flame. Sometimes, on the nights when she lies awake, missing him so fiercely it feels like a hole in her heart, Donna thinks the house misses him, too. Its sighs are sadder, its creaks more plaintive. Or maybe that's just her own sadness echoing back at her, her loneliness magnified in the empty spaces he used to fill.
She pushes open the door to her bedroom, the hinges squealing faintly in protest. Inside, it's even darker, the only light filtering in from the snow-covered window above her bed. For a moment, she stands there, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. Then, with a sigh, she moves to her dresser, stripping off her clothes mechanically, her fingers numb and fumbling in the cold air. Her jeans, her sweater, her underwear – all of it goes, until she's standing naked in the frigid room, goosebumps prickling her skin. There's no mirror, but she doesn't need one to know what she'd see. A woman in her late 30s, tired and scared and alone. A mother, a widow, a failed vigilante. A mess.
With a shaking hand, she pulls on an old t-shirt of Nate's, the fabric soft and worn against her skin. It no longer smells like him; it's been too long for that. But she can still feel his presence in its threads, in the way it hangs loose on her frame. It's a small comfort, but one she clings to with a desperate kind of need. She slips into bed, missing Eira's warmth beside her. The dog is probably still with Harvey, keeping an eye on the stranger in their midst. Donna's not worried about Harvey's intentions. If he wanted to hurt her, he's had plenty of opportunities to do so. No, what concerns her is Maddie. Her daughter, already so fragile, doesn't need a reason to fear her own home.
The wind picks up outside, whistling through the eaves, sending snow swirling against the glass, but it seems less threatening now, less like a warning and more like a lullaby. Donna curls onto her side, pulling the quilt up to her chin. She listens to the house groan and shift around her, and tries to imagine what Nate would say if he were here. He'd tell her she did the right thing, coming home instead of taking matters into her own hands. That their children need her more than they need revenge or justice or whatever the hell it was that drove her to Ethan Carter's doorstep with a gun. That everything will be alright, somehow, someday. That he loves her. She can hear his voice in her head, clear as day, as if he's lying beside her instead of buried six feet under. As she drifts off to sleep, she can almost feel his hand in her hair, stroking it gently, soothing her into the darkness. It's a dream, she knows, a fantasy, but it's enough to lull her into the first peaceful sleep she's had in weeks.
And somewhere below her, Harvey lies in the guest room, his mind racing. He's never been one for introspection – he prefers action, movement, forward momentum. But here in the stillness of this small town, in this house filled with ghosts and memories and a grief that feels tangible, he can't help but pause, to take stock. He's not a hero, that much is certain. He's a lawyer, a man who's built his career on the art of the deal, the beauty of the loophole, the thrill of the win. He's not used to playing savior, and the role doesn't sit well on his shoulders. It itches, it chafes. And yet here he is, in the middle of nowhere, snowed in and trapped by a woman who's blackmailing him into doing her bidding.
It should make him angry. It should fill him with righteous indignation, make him want to throw down the gauntlet, call her bluff.
Instead, he rolls over, watching the snow fall outside the window, and plans how to burn a small town to the ground.