Consequence by Madeline Sloane

breathed
heavily, fogging his window. Then she traced his initials in the
mist.
    “You’re a bit giddy tonight,” he said.
    “I know. I’m just letting loose.” Bridget
reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a tube of lip
moisturizer. She applied it to her lips and then to Boone’s. As
usual, Bridget’s familiarity disconcerted him.
    “Thanks.” he said, dryly.
    “Don’t mention it.”
    They didn’t speak until they reached the
waterfall, a treacherous drive up a steep, icy hill. As Neil
reported, the waterfall was an ice castle. Bridget tried to walk
across the frozen pool and fell on her behind laughing. Instead of
fighting gravity, she crawled on her hands and knees towards the
falls. Boone, meanwhile, arranged the tripod and tested the light
with a meter. The quarter moon shone off the snow and ice,
contrasting with the towering black rocks. He shot several rolls of
film from different angles before looking for Bridget. He found her
on her back, spinning like a turtle on the ice.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Looking at the stars. They’re spinning like
a top.” She patted the ice with her mittened hand. “It’s beautiful.
Come down here with me.”
    Boone stretched out beside Bridget, his knit
cap cushioning his head. Despite the moonlight, the stars were
brilliant against the cloudless night. They could even see the
Milky Way. Boone reached out and took Bridget’s hand in awed
silence. Eventually, the cold seeped into their bones and they
slipped and slid back to the car.
    Bridget recalled another night on top of the
mountain, watching the stars with Boone. She often wondered what
would have happened last summer if Nico and Carlo hadn’t stumbled
into their camp at the right moment. Or, had it been the wrong
moment?
    Fifteen harrowing minutes later, Boone parked
in Bridget’s driveway. “How about some coffee?” she asked. “You
light a fire and we can talk about the case.”
    Bridget slipped into the breezeway, stamping
the loose snow from her boots. She could hear the dogs scratching
and Morty growling in welcome. She opened the door and greeted the
dogs.
    “You guys act like you haven’t seen me in
months. Get down, Squirt. Morty, let go of Boone!”
    As usual, Morty clamped his teeth into
Boone’s booted ankle and let the man drag him across the kitchen
floor. Boone walked to the pantry for the box of dog biscuits.
Morty released his grip and began jumping for Boone’s outstretched
fingers. Squirt, always a lady, waited her turn to take the bone
from his hand. Boone stroked her silky ears.
    While Bridget ground fresh coffee beans and
prepared their mugs, Boone went into the den and set the fire. He
dumped the old ashes into a nearby bucket, and then built a small
pyramid of hardwood. He put crumpled newspapers and kindling under
the pyre, then lit a match. Within minutes, flames licked the wood
and the room glowed. Boone walked over to the bookcases and flipped
through Bridget’s collection of compact discs, selecting an
instrumental. He slid it into the player and turned the volume to
low.
    Bridget entered, carrying a tray of with
steaming mugs of coffee and biscotti. She set it on the oak table
and then stretched.
    “I need to change. My pants are wet from the
falls,” she said. “How about you? Are you wet?” She reached behind
Boone and touched the back of his pants. He raised an eyebrow at
her audacity.
    “You’re soaking, too,” she said, undaunted.
“There are some old jeans in the laundry room. I’ll get you a
pair.”
    She returned with one of her father’s flannel
shirts and a pair of pants. “Sorry; no drawers,” she said then went
upstairs to her bedroom. After a few minutes of thumping and
tossing, she bounced down the stairs wearing a pair of fleece
pajamas bottoms and a matching top covered by her frumpy sweater.
She had fuzzy slippers on her feet. Boone had seen the sleepwear
before, but tonight her casualness disturbed him. He kept recalling
aspects of