Page 30

The research facility's entrance gaped like a wound in the mountainside, its metal door hanging askew. Snow had already begun to drift across the threshold, erasing their footprints almost as quickly as they made them.

"Someone's been here recently," Tommy observed, running his gloved hand along fresh scratch marks on the door frame.

Sheila nodded, unholstering her weapon. The beam of her flashlight revealed a ransacked security station—filing cabinets and furniture piled haphazardly, as if someone had tried to barricade the entrance, then been forced to break through.

"Mark must have come this way," she said softly. "And given the fact that the door was open, I'm guessing his attacker did, too."

Tommy drew his own weapon but remained oddly quiet, without sharing any of his usual eager commentary. Their argument in the snow seemed to have affected him more deeply than she'd expected. Or maybe something else was bothering him.

They moved deeper into the facility, their footsteps echoing off concrete walls. The air grew colder, carrying the musty scent of abandonment. Windows high in the walls let in weak light, creating strange shadows that seemed to move at the edge of their flashlight beams.

A sound carried from somewhere ahead—metal scraping against concrete, followed by what might have been a voice.

Sheila gestured for Tommy to take the left side of the corridor while she took the right. They advanced slowly, checking each doorway, every shadow. The facility felt massive, its corridors branching like veins through the mountain's heart.

A flicker of movement caught her eye—something reflective in a room ahead. She signaled to Tommy, who nodded and moved to cover the door.

The room opened into what must have been the facility's main chamber—a vast circular space with high windows. Snow drifted through broken panes, catching what little light remained and transforming it into a ghostly dance.

And there, positioned like actors on a macabre stage, were two figures.

Oscar Wells stood with his back to a curved wall, one arm wrapped around Mark Davidson's throat. The other hand held a knife. Mark hung limp in Wells's grip, blood darkening the side of his ski jacket. His eyes were open but unfocused, his face pale from cold and blood loss.

"Sheriff Stone," Wells said calmly as if greeting her at a social function. "I was wondering when you'd find us."

Sheila's mind raced. Wells had been cleared—they'd verified his alibi, checked his timestamped photos. He couldn't be the killer. And yet here he stood, knife pressed against Mark's throat.

"How?" she demanded, keeping her weapon trained on him. "The photos from your wildlife shoot were timestamped."

Wells smiled, and there was something almost prideful in his expression.

"Did you know most high-end cameras let you adjust the internal clock?

Set it forward or back?" He shifted his grip on Mark, who groaned softly.

"I spent weeks planning this. Take photos one night, set the clock ahead twenty-four hours, take more the next night.

Create a perfect documented timeline of innocence. "

"While you were actually stalking your victims," Sheila said, inwardly cursing herself for not having caught on to this.

"I prefer to think of it as location scouting." Wells's voice took on a lecturer's tone. "Finding the perfect backdrop, the ideal lighting. You can't rush authenticity."

Sheila glanced back to see Tommy hovering some distance behind her, out of Wells' view. Probably trying to maintain the element of surprise. If Wells didn't realize there were two of them…

"The wildlife shots were never the point," Wells continued. "They were just my alibi. The real art was capturing that moment when artifice falls away—when someone who spends their life performing for others finally experiences something genuine."

"Like fear?" Sheila asked. "Pain?"

"Truth." Wells's eyes took on a fanatic gleam. "These 'influencers' with their staged photos, their fake enthusiasm—they're polluting reality itself. I'm helping them achieve something authentic. Something pure."

"By killing them?"

"By preserving them in their moment of transformation. When all the filters and facades fall away, and only raw humanity remains." He pressed the knife harder against Mark's throat. "Would you like to watch?"

"Oscar," Sheila said carefully, "you don't have to do this. Put down the knife. Let him go."

"You don't understand." Wells shook his head like a disappointed teacher. "This isn't about choice anymore. This is about truth. About capturing reality in its purest form." Wells pressed the knife harder against Mark's throat. "Something our friend here never understood."

Sheila's eyes darted to the side. Tommy was gone—she hadn't even noticed him slip away in the darkness. Smart. Maybe he'd be able to get the drop on Wells.

She needed to keep Wells talking, give Tommy time to get into position.

"Something snapped in you, didn't it?" Sheila said, watching his eyes. "All those years photographing people pretending to be happy, pretending to be in love, pretending to be successful—watching them manufacture moments instead of living them."

Wells's expression shifted, a crack appearing in his controlled demeanor.

"Do you know how many wedding shoots I did?

Hundreds. Watching couples pose and preen, more concerned with how they'd look on Instagram than the vows they were making.

Then divorces, six months later. A year.

But those 'perfect' photos living on forever—lies frozen in time. "

"So you decided to capture something real instead."

"I spent twenty years documenting artificial joy." His voice took on a fevered edge. "But fear? Pain? Those can't be faked. When someone realizes they're going to die—that's real. That's pure. That's the truth I've been searching for my whole career."

"You could have just quit wedding photography," Sheila said. "Started doing war zones, natural disasters—plenty of authentic suffering there."

"Too easy. Too expected." Wells shook his head.

"I needed to create those moments myself.

Control every aspect, just like a studio shoot.

But this time, capturing something genuine.

" He looked down at Mark. "Our friend here built his whole career on manufactured authenticity.

The irony is beautiful, don't you think? "

Mark's eyes were glazed with pain, but he was still conscious. Blood had soaked through his jacket where Wells had stabbed him.

Sheila tried to think of something else to say to keep the conversation going, but before she could do so, Wells looked at her, his eyes dancing with an inner, haunted light. "Drop the weapon, Sheriff," he said. "Or his moment of truth comes sooner than planned."

Sheila hesitated. She hoped Tommy was in position by now. He was a good shot—she'd seen his range scores. All he needed was a clear line of sight.

"I mean it." Wells pressed the blade deeper, drawing a thin line of blood. "Your gun. Now."

Sheila slowly lowered her weapon. "Okay," she said. "Just don't hurt him."

"Kick it over here."

She did, watching the gun slide across the concrete floor. Wells released his hold on Mark, who slumped to his knees and picked up the weapon.

Now, Tommy. Take the shot.

But nothing happened.

Wells smiled as he aimed the gun at her chest. "Predictable," he said. "Just like all the others who think they're heroes."

The gunshot echoed through the facility.