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"Severe blunt force trauma to the back of the head," Dr. Zihao said, his gloved fingers probing gently at Sarah's skull. "Consistent with being struck from behind with a heavy object."

The harsh lights of the morgue did nothing to soften the reality of Sarah Winters' frozen form lying on the steel table.

It had taken four men to transport her body down the mountain, the storm making the journey treacherous.

Now, nearly dawn, the first hints of gray light seeped through the morgue's high windows.

Sheila fought back exhaustion, forcing herself to focus. Beside her, Tommy looked barely awake, his usual energy depleted by the long night. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his normally neat appearance had given way to rumpled clothes and untamed hair.

"How long will it take to thaw her body?" Sheila asked.

Dr. Zihao carefully examined Sarah's frozen limbs. "We have to do it gradually—too fast, and we risk damaging evidence. We keep the room at exactly forty degrees and let the body warm naturally. With the degree of freezing we're dealing with, I'd estimate eighteen to twenty-four hours."

He gestured to various instruments around the room, monitoring temperature and humidity.

"We document everything—how the ice crystals melt, any marks or abrasions that become visible.

The thawing process itself can tell us a lot about the time of death and the conditions under which she was frozen. "

"Like a specialized form of time of death calculation?" Tommy asked, stifling a yawn.

"Exactly." Dr. Zihao nodded approvingly. "Now, would you like to see what we found with Mr. Greenwald?"

He led them to another examination table where Bradley Greenwald's body lay. The frozen rigidity had melted away, leaving him looking almost peaceful as if he were merely sleeping.

"The stab wound was well-hidden," Dr. Zihao said, gesturing at a neat incision between Greenwald's ribs, previously hidden by his ski jacket. "The killer knew exactly where to strike. One clean thrust, straight to the heart."

"You were right about the blood on his jacket," Tommy said to Sheila.

Sheila nodded. "My guess is the wound was deliberately covered, probably to maintain the aesthetic the killer wanted for his photograph." She turned back to Dr. Zihao. "Go on, doctor."

The coroner cleared his throat. "The knife was large, serrated—consistent with a hunting or survival knife. The kind of blade many mountaineers carry."

He pointed out other details—bruising patterns, signs of struggle, the precise angle of the fatal wound. "Your killer knows his anatomy. The strike was expertly placed."

"Military training, maybe?" Sheila suggested.

"Possible. Or medical background. Or just someone who's done their homework." Dr. Zihao covered Greenwald's body. "I'll know more about Ms. Winters once the thawing is complete."

Outside the morgue, the sun was rising over the mountains, painting the snow-covered peaks in shades of pink and gold. Sheila and Tommy stood in the parking lot, both looking drained.

"Earlier," Tommy said hesitantly, "during the search... you were saying something about your father?"

Sheila shook her head. "It's not important right now."

"Seemed important." His voice was quiet, careful. When she didn't respond, he tried to hide his disappointment. "Maybe we should grab some sleep? We've been up all night."

"We can't." Sheila started walking toward their vehicle. "We need to dig into Sarah's background, find any connection to Greenwald. And if our killer sticks to his pattern, he'll strike again tonight. We're running out of time."

Tommy hurried to catch up. "You really think he'll move that fast?"

"I think we have to be ready for anything." She reached the car and turned to face Tommy. "We can sleep when we catch him. Right now, someone else's life might depend on what we do in the next twelve hours."

Tommy nodded, squaring his shoulders despite his obvious exhaustion. "Where do we start?"

"Sarah's social media. Like Greenwald, she was active online. There might be overlap in their followers, their locations, the places they frequented." Sheila climbed into the driver's seat. "The killer's choosing his victims for a reason. We just have to figure out what connects them."

As they drove toward the station, the rising sun cast long shadows across the snow-covered streets. Somewhere out there, their killer might be already watching, selecting his next victim.

They had until nightfall to prevent another death. The clock was ticking.

* * *

Sheila rubbed her tired eyes, the computer screen blurring before her.

Sarah Winters' social media profile filled the monitor—an endless scroll of snowboarding photos and videos, each tagged with locations and dates.

Across the desk, Tommy was similarly engrossed in his own screen, though his usual energy had given way to exhausted determination.

She stole a glance at him, thinking about their conversation in the snow.

His admission about drinking after his father left had struck a chord.

She understood that descent into alcohol all too well—the gradual slide from social drinking to dependency, using it to numb pain rather than face it.

She'd struggled with it in the months after Natalie's death, and though Finn had been sober a number of years, he knew the temptation firsthand as well.

That was why they'd made a vow together that neither of them would go back to the bottle.

Sheila had recently broken that vow during a particularly hopeless time in the middle of a murder investigation, but since then, she'd been sober.

Did Tommy know about her past struggles? It wasn't exactly a secret in the department, but it wasn't something she advertised either.

"Got something," Tommy said suddenly, looking up. "Looks like Sarah took classes at the resort last winter." Their eyes met. Did he realize she'd been watching him?

She rose and joined him, standing behind him so he wouldn't be able to see her eyes.

"What kind of classes?" she asked.

"Basic digital photography, then advanced composition." He scrolled through the records. "Looks like the program was discontinued after some kind of incident."

"What incident?"

Tommy tapped away at the keyboard. "Pulling up the resort's HR records now... Here we go. The program was shut down after a teacher named James Morton had what they're calling a 'public behavioral incident' during class."

Sheila peered over Tommy's shoulder to read the report, which detailed how Morton had launched into a tirade about social media corrupting 'real photography,' ultimately throwing a student's phone across the room when he caught them streaming his lecture online.

"Look at this," Tommy said, opening another file. "Multiple complaints from students about harassment. He was apparently fixated on their social media presence, calling them 'parasites' who were 'destroying authentic moments for likes.'"

Something clicked in Sheila's mind. "Wait. Pull up Bradley Greenwald's social media history again."

They found the very thing she'd been looking for: a heated exchange between Greenwald and Morton from six months ago. Greenwald had posted about staging photos for maximum impact, and Morton had responded with a lengthy rant about the death of true photography.

"And here's Sarah," Tommy said, finding another connection. "She filed a complaint about Morton following her around the slopes, criticizing her snowboarding photos for being 'performative' rather than authentic."

Sheila felt her pulse quicken. "Both victims took his classes. Both had conflicts with him about their social media presence."

"There's more." Tommy opened Morton's termination letter. "Look at his final email to resort management: 'You'll see. Someone needs to preserve real moments, not these artificial constructs designed for likes and shares. I'll show you all what authentic really means.'"