Page 23

The storm transformed the mountain into a wall of white. Sheila stood at the window of the resort's main lodge, watching the snow pile up against the glass. The flakes were thick and wet—the kind that accumulated quickly, turning familiar landscapes into alien terrain.

A reflection appeared beside her own. Finn Mercer, her partner both on and off the job, stood carefully balancing two paper cups.

His arm was still in a sling from the shooting last week, but he'd shed the hospital gown for his usual attire—dark jeans and a blue button-down that made his eyes seem even more startlingly blue than usual.

Despite the sling, he still carried himself with that quiet confidence she'd first noticed in him years ago.

"They're saying two feet by morning," he said, offering her one of the cups. "Hot chocolate. You look like you could use it."

She accepted the cup gratefully, wrapping her cold fingers around its warmth. "What are you doing here, Finn? You're supposed to be in the hospital."

"Thought you'd be happy to see me." He smiled, but there was something guarded in his expression.

"I am happy to see you. I'm also worried about you. You took a bullet less than a week ago."

"Convinced them to let me out early. Said I'd take it easy." He sipped his own drink—coffee, she knew, black with two sugars. Some things never changed. "Besides, I can still help you think through the case. That's what partners do, right?"

Partners. The word hung between them, laden with meaning.

They'd been partners long before they'd become lovers, building the kind of trust that only came from watching each other's backs through countless dangerous situations.

The shooting had shaken that foundation—she still woke up some nights hearing the sound of the gunshot, seeing him crumple to the ground.

Movement caught her eye. Across the lodge, Tommy was talking with Star in a low voice. She was frowning as if she was surprised by what he was saying. Odd. But as long as he wasn't making a pass at Star, Sheila wasn't particularly worried.

"How's the new guy working out?" Finn asked, following her gaze.

"Good," she said, the conversation from the mountain still fresh in her mind. "He's eager to learn."

"Seems to be getting along well with Star."

"She needs that right now," Sheila said carefully.

She debated telling Finn about Jake, about finding Star at his apartment.

But Finn was still recovering, and she didn't want to burden him with more worries.

Besides, she needed to process it herself first—her failures as a guardian, her fears about repeating her father's patterns of emotional distance.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it to the hospital this morning," she said instead. "Things spiraled quickly with this case."

"Yeah, I heard." His voice was neutral, but she caught the slight edge beneath it. "Couple of orderlies were talking about the frozen bodies up here. Quite the story around town."

"Finn..."

"No, I get it." He offered a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You had to work the case. You always do."

She turned to face him fully. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not." He sighed, running his good hand through his hair. "Look, I know the job comes first. It's one of the things I admire about you. But lying in that hospital bed, thinking about how close I came to..." He trailed off, jaw working. "Maybe it's made me reconsider some priorities."

Before she could respond, Michael Wright approached, his jacket dusted with snow.

"Sheriff," he said, "if you're planning to head back to town, I'd suggest doing it soon. Once this storm really hits, the roads will be impassable."

Sheila shook her head. "We can't leave yet. The killer's still here—or nearby. This is his territory. Besides, we need to find Mark Davidson ASAP."

"We can't mount a search for Mark in these conditions," Michael said. "Visibility's dropping by the minute."

"We can't just leave him out there." She stared into the whiteness beyond the window. Somewhere in that blank canvas, Mark Davidson might still be alive, might be waiting for help.

"What about the service roads?" Finn asked. "They're more sheltered, and the maintenance crews keep them relatively clear. If Mark found his way to one..."

Sheila turned to him, seeing the familiar gleam in his eye that meant he was building a theory. Before he could continue, though, footsteps approached.

"What's going on?" Tommy asked, joining their group. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, snow melting in his dark hair.

"Tommy Forster," he said, extending his hand to Finn. "You must be Deputy Mercer. Heard a lot about you."

Finn hesitated for just a fraction of a second before returning the handshake. "Likewise."

Standing together, the contrast between the two men was striking.

Tommy radiated youthful energy, all earnest enthusiasm, and untested confidence.

His dark hair was still tousled from the mountain wind, snowflakes melting against his flushed cheeks.

He made Finn look almost middle-aged in comparison, with his stubbled jaw and the tired lines around his eyes that the hospital stay had deepened.

But where Tommy was all forward momentum and fresh ambition, Finn carried the quiet strength of experience.

Sheila knew every scar on his hands, each one earned protecting others.

Knew how those hands felt when they held her after a rough case, steady and sure.

Their relationship had grown from years of shared battles, of trusting each other with their lives.

Finn's eyes met hers briefly, and she saw the shadows there, the unspoken fear of losing her that had haunted him since the shooting.

She wanted to reassure him, to bridge the distance that had grown between them during his hospital stay.

But she wasn't sure she would've had the words even if they'd been alone.

"Finn was just suggesting we focus our search on the service roads," she said quickly, pushing the complicated emotions aside.

"The service roads are a good start," Michael said, "but we've got six of them criss-crossing this section of the mountain. Even with a team, searching them all in these conditions..."

"We prioritize," Finn said, turning to Sheila. "You tracked the prints east, right? That narrows it to these two roads." He traced them on the wall map with his good hand.

"If he was thinking clearly," Michael interjected, "he'd have aimed for the maintenance shed. It's the only shelter up there."

"We already checked the shed," Sheila said.

"Then again, he might have doubled back after we left," Tommy added. "If he's injured, moving in circles..."

"How much time do you think he has?" Finn asked Michael.

Michael shook his head. "Depends on his injuries, his clothing. If he's moving, generating heat—maybe a few more hours. If he's stationary..." He didn't finish the thought.

"There's something else to consider," Sheila said quietly. "Our killer likes to pose his victims in perfect form, preserve them in specific positions. He needs time for that. And with this storm coming in..."

"You think he's working on Mark right now?" Tommy asked.

"I think if Mark's still alive, it's because the killer isn't done with him yet."

The implications of that hung heavy in the air. Outside, the storm intensified, snow whipping against the windows in white sheets. The mountain was disappearing into the gathering darkness, taking its secrets with it.

"If we're going to do this," Michael said, "we need to move now. But Sheriff..." He hesitated. "You should know—in conditions like this, search and rescue won't come if we get into trouble. We'll be on our own up there."

Sheila looked around at their small group. A wounded deputy, a security chief, a rookie cop. Not exactly an elite rescue team. But they were all she had. Unless…

"We need more people," she said. "If there's anyone else still in the building… tell them this is their chance to save a life."