Page 3

The Mountain Peak Resort parking lot was a maze of emergency vehicles, their red and blue lights reflecting off the freshly fallen snow.

Sheila pulled in beside a patrol car, her mind still spinning from the conversation with her father.

She needed to focus on this case, but his warning about trusting people in her own department kept echoing in her head.

Had he been thinking about someone in particular?

Officer Tommy Forster stood waiting for her, looking impossibly young in his crisp uniform.

He'd joined the department six months ago, fresh from the academy, all earnest enthusiasm and textbook procedures.

His dark hair had that carefully disheveled look that made him seem more like an actor playing a cop than an actual officer.

There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Sheila couldn't figure out what it was. Did she know him from outside work, perhaps?

"Sheriff Stone," he said, straightening his posture. "Thanks for coming out. I know you've got a lot on your plate with Deputy Mercer in the hospital and all."

Sheila nodded, pushing away thoughts of Finn's recovery. He'd be released next week, but until then, she had to manage without her partner. "Tell me what we've got, Forster."

"Right." Tommy pulled out his phone, fumbling slightly with cold fingers. "Bradley Greenwald, local businessman. Rachel Caffrey, one of the ski instructors, found him about an hour ago. He's..." He hesitated, frowning at his notes.

"He's what?"

"Maybe you should just see for yourself. I've never seen anything like it… but I guess that's not saying much, is it?"

They took the maintenance snowmobile up the mountain, Tommy driving while Sheila directed him. She noticed he handled the machine with natural skill, navigating the snowy terrain confidently despite his inexperience with crime scenes.

"How's Deputy Mercer doing?" Tommy asked over his shoulder. "I stopped by earlier, but he was sleeping."

"Better," Sheila said. "Doctor says he'll be back on duty in a couple weeks." She didn't mention how empty the house felt without Finn there, or how much she missed Finn's reliable presence beside her on the job.

The crime scene came into view, illuminated by portable floodlights that cast harsh shadows across the snow.

CSI techs moved carefully around a figure that, at first glance, appeared to be a skier caught mid-turn.

But as they drew closer, Sheila saw the unnatural stillness, the frost patterns across exposed skin.

"Everything's been photographed and documented," Tommy said, his professional demeanor slipping slightly to reveal genuine awe. "But we waited for you before moving anything. I remembered what you said in briefing last month about preserving the scene exactly as the killer left it."

Sheila glanced at him, surprised he'd retained that detail. Most rookies were too nervous their first few months to absorb much beyond basic procedures.

Sheila circled the body slowly. Greenwald was dressed in high-end ski gear, his form perfect—knees bent, body angled into the slope, poles positioned with precise attention to detail.

If it weren't for the blue tinge to his skin and the ice crystals in his hair, he might have been a mannequin in a sporting goods store.

"You mentioned there being a killer," she said, watching Tommy. "Why?"

He straightened, clearly pleased to be tested. "The positioning is too precise to be accidental. Someone took time arranging him like this. And look at the snow around the body—it's been smoothed out, like someone deliberately erased their tracks."

"Good observations. What else?"

Tommy frowned, scanning the scene. "The temperature dropped dramatically overnight. Based on preliminary findings, he was killed before that happened, then posed while the body was still flexible."

"You're missing something important," Sheila said.

Tommy's confidence wavered. He looked at the body again, then at his phone. "I don't..."

"The lift schedule," Sheila said. "When did they stop running yesterday?"

"Five-thirty," Tommy said, then understanding dawned on his face. "And Caffrey found him at dawn, around six-fifteen this morning. Which means..."

"The killer had to have a way up here after the lifts stopped. And a way back down in the dark." She studied the young officer. "Always consider access and escape routes, Forster. They can tell you as much about your suspect as physical evidence."

"Getting up wouldn't be too hard with a snowmobile," Tommy said, thinking it through. "But getting down..." He gazed across the darkened slopes. "Can't use a snowmobile on these runs—too steep, too many obstacles."

"Exactly," Sheila said. "So how did our killer manage it?"

"Ski down?" Tommy suggested. "But that would take serious skill in the dark."

"And serious knowledge of the mountain," Sheila added. "One wrong turn in the dark, you'd end up in a ravine."

"What about the service roads?" Tommy asked. "Maintenance crews use them."

Sheila was about to reply, but just then she noticed something—a stain on the victim's jacket. "What do you make of that?" She gestured at the small bloom of color coming through Greenwald's jacket.

"What is it?" Tommy asked. "Blood?"

Sheila nodded. "I think so. Could be a mortal wound. Maybe the killer covered it up afterward, wanted to hide it. We'll know more after the ME takes a look."

Michael Wright, the head of resort security, approached them. He was a tall man with a military bearing, his red jacket marking him as staff. "Sheriff Stone? We've got Ms. Caffrey in the patrol shack if you want to speak with her."

Sheila nodded, but before she could respond, her phone buzzed. A text from Star: Heat's out again. Should I go to Mrs. Jacobs until they fix it?

The message brought a fresh wave of guilt.

At fourteen years old, Star had experienced nothing but instability in her life so far.

Her mother was out of the picture, and after Star's abusive father had thrown her out, Sheila had taken it upon herself to become Star's guardian.

All of this had transpired within the past few months, so the change was still fresh.

Sheila, who had been teaching Star kickboxing before Star's home life came to a crisis, had known that becoming Star's guardian would mean taking an active role in the fourteen-year-old's life.

But lately Sheila had been so caught up with work that it was difficult to just relax and hang out with Star.

Getting lost in her work was easier, too.

She didn't have to deal with the complicated emotions that came with being at home with Star and Finn.

She didn't have to deal with the nagging doubts about whether she was good enough for them, about whether she could create a real, cohesive family with them—so different from her own family, which had been fractured by the dual tragedies of her mother's murder and her sister's suicide.

"Everything okay?" Tommy asked, watching her with concern.

"Fine," Sheila said, perhaps too quickly. "Let's talk to Caffrey."

As they walked toward the patrol shack, she found herself missing Finn's steady presence more than ever.

He would have known exactly what she was thinking right now, would have already been making calls about the heat.

Tommy's earnest enthusiasm was endearing, but it wasn't the same as having a partner who could read your mind.

Still, she had to admit the rookie showed promise.

The patrol shack perched on steel supports above the snow, a utilitarian box painted to match the resort's navy and gold color scheme.

Inside, Rachel Caffrey sat hunched at a small table, her hands wrapped around a paper cup.

She looked younger than Sheila had expected, her ski instructor's uniform crisp despite the morning's events.

"Ms. Caffrey," Sheila said. "I'm Sheriff Stone. This is Officer Forster. How are you holding up?"

Rachel's hands tightened on the cup. "I keep seeing him. Every time I close my eyes."

"Tell us what happened," Sheila said, taking the seat across from her while Tommy positioned himself by the door, notebook ready.

"I was doing my usual dawn run. I like to check conditions before my first lesson." Rachel took a shaky breath. "At first I thought he was another early riser. But something felt wrong about how still he was."

"Did you recognize him?" Sheila asked.

"Not at first. Not until I got closer." Rachel pushed the cup away. "But once I did... Bradley's been coming here for years. He was in my advanced clinic last season."

"What kind of student was he?"

"Skilled. Maybe too skilled for his own good sometimes. He liked pushing boundaries, trying tricks above his level."

"Was he alone yesterday?"

Rachel frowned. "I saw him in the morning, shooting photos with some fancy camera setup. But I had classes all day. I didn't see him after that."

"Photos?" Tommy asked, looking up from his notes.

"He was always taking pictures," Rachel said. "Posted them online all the time. Said he was building his brand or something."

Sheila and Tommy exchanged a look. "We'll need access to the resort's security footage," she said. "And a list of everyone who was on the mountain yesterday."

"Michael—Mr. Wright—is pulling that together now," Rachel said. Her voice cracked slightly. "Sheriff? The way he was posed... it was perfect form. Exactly the position we teach in advanced clinics. Whoever did this... they knew what they were doing."

Sheila studied the ski instructor carefully. "What makes you say that?"

"Because it's not just about the position. It's about balance, weight distribution, the angle of the body relative to the slope." Rachel hugged herself. "You couldn't just stumble into that pose. You'd have to understand skiing. Really understand it."

Tommy shifted by the door, and Sheila could practically see him adding 'experienced skier' to his mental profile of their suspect. She made a mental note to remind him later not to jump to conclusions too quickly.

She turned her attention back to Rachel. "We'll need you to come to the station later to make a formal statement," she said. "For now, is there someone who can drive you home?"

Rachel nodded. "Michael already called my roommate."

As they left the patrol shack, Tommy fell into step beside Sheila. "Should we put out a bulletin for anyone who purchased a lift ticket yesterday?"

"Not yet," Sheila said. "First we need to figure out how our killer got up here after hours. Wright said he'd have employee records ready. Let's start there."

She tried not to notice how Tommy's face lit up at being included in her plans, or how his enthusiasm reminded her of herself at that age. Still, his enthusiasm was infectious.

"Wait," Tommy said as they walked. "Something's been bothering me about the body. How did the killer keep it upright while it froze? Greenwald's in a carving position—that's not a naturally stable pose."

Sheila nodded, glad he'd picked up on this detail. "Exactly. What's your theory?"

Tommy thought for a moment. "They'd need some kind of support system. Maybe ski poles?"

"Look at the snow around the body again," Sheila said. "What do you see?"

They turned back toward the crime scene. From their new vantage point, subtle patterns emerged in the smoothed snow—small, regular depressions forming a rough semicircle around Greenwald's frozen form.

"Stakes," Tommy said suddenly. "They used stakes or poles to hold him in position until he froze solid."

"And then?"

"And then removed them, filled in the holes, smoothed everything out." He frowned. "That would take time. Hours, maybe."

"Which means our killer was confident they wouldn't be interrupted," Sheila said. "Wright mentioned they do security sweeps, but clearly there are gaps in their coverage."

"Or the killer knew the schedule," Tommy suggested.

Sheila gave him an approving look. "Now you're thinking like a detective."

His face reddened at the praise.

As they walked to join Michael, Tommy pulled out his phone, his fingers moving rapidly across the screen.

"Sheriff," he said suddenly. "I think I found something."

"What is it?"

"Greenwald's social media." Tommy held out his phone. "Look at his last post."

Sheila stopped walking. The image on the screen showed Bradley Greenwald caught in mid-turn, early morning light catching the spray of powder behind him.

He was in the exact same position they'd just found his frozen body in—the same angle of his knees, the same tilt of his torso, even the same positioning of his poles.

The caption read: 'Perfect form comes from perfect practice. #MountainLife #SkiGoals'

"Posted yesterday at 7:13 AM," Tommy said quietly. "But who took the photo? Was someone with him, or did he have a tripod or something?"

Sheila said nothing as she stared at the photo, suppressing a shiver. Their killer hadn't just posed Greenwald in a technically correct skiing position.

They'd recreated his final moment of glory, turning it into a frozen tableau of death.