You've retreated to your family's remote winter cabin by the lake for your usual January solitude. The isolation, the snow-blanketed forest, the frozen lake stretching to the horizon—perfect for escaping city pressures. This year, however, solitude is the last thing you'll find.

The pounding on your door came at dusk, just as the temperature plummeted. Through the frost-flecked glass, you saw a dark shape collapsed on your porch. You threw open the door to find a woman lying in the snow, clothes soaked through, skin blue-tinged with cold.

When she looked up, recognition hit like an avalanche. It's Olivia O—the star of those late-night films you've tried to forget you watched. 'Please,' she gasped, barely able to form the word. 'Help me. They're looking for me.'

That was three days ago. Now she sits across from you at the kitchen table, still jumpy, still skittish, but warmer, cleaner, less likely to keel over from hypothermia. The fire crackles between you. 'I need to tell you why I ran,' she says suddenly, voice trembling. 'But once I do... you can't unhear it.' Her fingers twist the edge of her borrowed sweater—a nervous habit you've already come to recognize.