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"Wells!" Sheila's voice was swallowed by the vast whiteness. A gust of wind howled across the snow-covered expanse, whipping loose flakes into a swirling frenzy. The drift where Wells had disappeared showed no sign of movement.

"Oscar Wells!" she called again.

She strained to listen, but the wind snatched away any possible reply. Was he still buried? Or had he crawled out somewhere—on the far side of the snowbank, perhaps—and she just hadn't seen?

She and Tommy waded through snow that reached past their knees, the powder so light it seemed to evaporate around their legs. Her boots sank deep, and she had to fight to pull them free each time.

Panic threatened to creep in, but she forced it down. She wanted Wells alive—so they could learn why he'd killed Greenwald, if he was indeed the killer, or prove his innocence if he hadn't.

The spot where Wells had landed was marked only by a human-shaped depression rapidly filling with spindrift. The snow was relentless, erasing any signs of his passage.

"There!" Tommy pointed to a patch of dark fabric barely visible beneath the snow's surface. Relief surged through her.

They began digging frantically, scooping away the snow with gloved hands. The cold penetrated Sheila's gloves, numbing her hands.

"Hang on, Wells," she muttered under her breath. "We're coming."

A muffled groan emanated from beneath the snow. It was faint but unmistakable. Encouraged, they redoubled their efforts. Finally, they uncovered a face—eyes squeezed shut, snow-crusted in a graying beard. His skin was pale, bordering on blue.

"Got you," Sheila said as she and Tommy dragged him from the drift. Wells coughed, spitting out snow, but his eyes were alert. That was a good sign.

"Anything broken?" she asked, studying him. It was difficult to know how to treat him, given she didn't know whether he was a cold-blooded killer or an innocent.

"Just my pride." His voice was cultured and precise—the kind of voice you'd expect to hear narrating a nature documentary. "And possibly my dignity." Despite the situation, he managed a wry smile.

His composure was surprising, but perhaps it was a facade. She'd seen it before—people masking their fear with humor.

"Want to tell us why you ran?" Tommy asked, eyeing Wells carefully.

Wells' eyes darted between them. There was something guarded in his expression. "I will explain everything. But first—please. My cabin. I need warmth."

Sheila hesitated. Protocol suggested they should question him immediately.

"Please!" he said more forcefully, his teeth chattering. "I've got snow melting inside my clothes. If I'm out here much longer, I'll…" He shivered violently. "Catch hypothermia!"

"Alright," Sheila said with a nod. "We'll get you back. And then I want to know everything."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they sat in Wells' living room.

A fire crackled in a modern stone fireplace, casting a warm glow that seeped into Sheila's chilled bones.

The room was spacious yet cozy, filled with rich woods and tasteful decor that suggested both wealth and a love of nature.

Large windows overlooked the snow-covered mountains, the glass slightly fogged from the interior warmth.

Sheila took in her surroundings, noting the expensive furnishings and the array of photographs adorning the walls—stunning landscapes and wildlife captured in breathtaking detail. It was a curated gallery, each image more impressive than the last. He certainly had an eye for beauty.

Just like the killer, she thought. In his own twisted way.

Wells had changed into dry clothes—an expensive-looking sweater and wool pants that somehow made him look even more like a wildlife photographer from central casting.

He was tall and lean, with the weathered face of someone who spent most of his time outdoors.

His silver-streaked hair was combed neatly, and his eyes, a piercing blue, held a mix of intelligence and caution.

His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as though he was constantly aware of being framed in an invisible viewfinder. Sheila couldn't shake the feeling that everything he did was calculated.

"Tea?" he offered, handling delicate ceramic cups with surprising grace for someone who'd just been buried in snow. "It's a special blend. Helps with the altitude."

"No, thank you," Sheila replied with a tight smile. Taking a 'special blend' from a suspect in a homicide investigation didn't seem like the wisest decision.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He settled into a leather armchair, somehow making it look like a throne. The way he commanded the room was unsettling.

"Mr. Wells," Sheila began, then paused. She wanted to get right to the point, but something told her to proceed carefully.

He held up a hand. "Please. Oscar."

Sheila studied him, trying to read beyond the polished exterior.

"We saw a camera on your table," Tommy said, stepping in. "One that matches the description of—"

"Ah, yes." Wells rose smoothly and retrieved the camera from the kitchen.

"I can see why you might think that. But look.

" He pointed to a small serial number etched into the base.

"This is mine. Purchased six months ago from Sherman's Camera in Salt Lake.

You can verify the serial number with them. "

Sheila examined the camera carefully. Now that she looked closer, she could see subtle differences from the one in Amanda's photo. But was this a deliberate ploy? Her instincts told her not to take anything at face value.

"Why did you run?" she asked, her gaze fixed on him.

"Because I knew how it would look." Wells sighed dramatically. "A professional photographer, alone in the mountains, when another photographer dies? I panicked. Foolishly."

"That seems like an extreme reaction," Sheila said. "Why would you assume you were under suspicion?"

Wells shifted in his chair, looking momentarily uncomfortable. "The photography community in this area is small. When another photographer dies in such a... dramatic way, people talk. Ask questions."

"And how exactly did you hear about the murder in the first place?" Tommy asked. Good question, Sheila thought.

"I..." Wells ran a hand through his snow-dampened hair. "One of the ski patrols mentioned it. Said Greenwald was found frozen in a skiing position. Like some kind of macabre statue."

"Which member of ski patrol?" Sheila pressed.

"I don't remember their name. It was at the lodge earlier—everyone was talking about the murder." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I know how this sounds. But I truly had nothing to do with Greenwald's death."

"Where were you last night?" Tommy asked, keeping his tone conversational.

"Photographing elk in the north valley." Wells moved to his computer, pulling up a series of photos. As the images loaded, Sheila watched his face. It was clear he was proud of what he did.

"The cold brought them down from the high country," he continued. "I'd been tracking this herd for days."

The photos were stunning—elk moving through moonlit snow, steam rising from their nostrils, every detail crystal clear. The composition was impeccable, capturing the raw beauty of the wilderness.

"These are remarkable," Tommy said, making no effort to hide his admiration.

Sheila studied the images thoughtfully. "They are," she murmured.

"Nature cannot be rushed," Wells said, warming to his subject. "These took hours of waiting in the cold, but it was well worth it."

"You said you took these last night?" Sheila asked. "Is there proof?"

"Of course," Wells said, tapping away at the keyboard. He pulled up the metadata panel. "Every photo I take is automatically tagged with GPS coordinates, time, and environmental data. It's all embedded in the file itself—impossible to alter without leaving digital fingerprints."

The timestamps marched across the screen in neat intervals: 9:47 PM, 10:13 PM, 10:42 PM. Sheila leaned closer, studying the progression. The light in the photos shifted subtly as the moon traced its path across the winter sky, casting ever-changing shadows across the snowfield where the elk grazed.

"See how the herd moves?" Wells gestured to the screen, his voice taking on the measured cadence of someone used to teaching. "You can track their feeding pattern through the night. The way they drift with the wind, always keeping the youngest members sheltered."

He clicked through the sequence, and Sheila noticed how the snow patterns evolved in the background—wind-carved ripples that grew and changed as the hours passed, creating a natural timestamp that would be nearly impossible to fabricate.

The elk's breath caught the moonlight differently in each frame, crystallizing in the subzero air like ephemeral sculptures.

"The temperature dropped eight degrees over these three hours," Wells continued, pointing to the metadata. "You can see it in the way the steam from their breath changes, becomes more pronounced. Nature provides its own documentation if you know how to read it."

His pride wasn't just in the images themselves, Sheila realized, but in the meticulous record-keeping they represented.

Every detail catalogued, every moment preserved with scientific precision.

It was the work of someone who lived his life through a lens, turning reality into carefully archived moments.

Sheila studied the photos a few moments longer before rising. "Thank you for your time," she said. It's seemed clear what Wells had—and, more importantly, had not—been doing last night.

Wells inclined his head in a gracious nod. "If there's anything else I can assist with, please don't hesitate to ask."

Outside, the afternoon light had taken on the golden quality that preceded sunset. Sheila and Tommy stood by the patrol car, watching their breath cloud in the cold air. The chill had intensified, and the sky was streaked with hues of pink and orange, casting a serene glow over the snowy landscape.

"What do you think?" Tommy asked, breaking the silence.

Sheila leaned against the car, crossing her arms. "I think he's an odd fellow. But not a murderer." She gazed out at the mountains, their peaks dusted with fresh snow, wondering where this left them.

"So we've got no leads," Tommy said, kicking at the snow with the toe of his boot. "No suspects."

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean there's nothing to do."

Sheila climbed into the car. Tommy sighed deeply, then joined her on the opposite side. As Sheila pulled away from the cabin, Tommy said, "Alright, then. Spill the beans. You've clearly got a plan."

"I want to comb through Greenwald's social media accounts again. Look for any interactions that stand out. Maybe someone who was angry with him or obsessed with his work."

"I can handle that," he replied, pulling out his phone.

"Good." She appreciated his diligence. Tommy was still young, but he had good instincts, and she was beginning to trust him. With Finn sidelined, she needed all the help she could get.

As they drove, the mountains loomed dark against the dying light. The stars began to emerge, tiny points of light piercing the indigo sky.