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The security office doubled as Michael Wright's personal museum of Mountain Peak Resort history.

Vintage ski equipment hung on the walls alongside black and white photos of the resort's early days.

Michael himself fit right in with the decor—a former Army Ranger turned ski patroller who'd worked his way up to head of security over the past fifteen years.

Sheila had known him since her days as a deputy, when they'd collaborated on several search and rescue operations.

"Coffee?" he asked, already pouring three cups. His movements were precise, efficient, like everything else about him. Even his salt-and-pepper beard was perfectly trimmed.

"Thanks, Michael." Sheila accepted the cup, breathing in the familiar aroma. Michael always kept the good stuff on hand—a habit he claimed he'd picked up during his deployments. "Show us what you've got."

Michael settled into his chair, his weathered face illuminated by the glow of multiple monitors.

"I've got footage from every operational camera on the mountain.

But..." He tapped a few keys, bringing up a map covered in red dots.

"We've got significant blind spots, especially in the more remote areas. It's just too much ground to cover."

Tommy leaned forward, studying the screens. "Where was Greenwald last seen?"

"Upper Horizon, around 8:45 PM." Michael pulled up the footage. The grainy video showed Greenwald skiing alone, his form distinctive even in the poor lighting. "Temperature was already dropping by then. We hit negative fifteen overnight."

"That's unusually cold for this time of year," Sheila said.

Michael nodded grimly. "Coldest night we've had all season. Perfect conditions for freezing a body."

They watched as Greenwald disappeared into one of the blind spots. He never emerged on any other camera.

"So our killer struck between 8:45 PM and dawn," Tommy said. "Attacked Greenwald, posed him while his body was still flexible, then used stakes or poles to hold him in position until he froze solid."

"Smart kid," Michael muttered, giving Sheila an approving look.

Her phone buzzed. Finn.

"Excuse me," she said, stepping into the hallway. "Hey, partner. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got shot," Finn said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "Physical therapy's kicking my ass, but doc says I'm making good progress."

"That's great." Sheila closed her eyes, suddenly missing him fiercely. Right then, she wanted more than anything to curl up on the couch with him and put a movie on, free from all responsibilities—no cases to solve, no calls to make or take—the rest of the day.

But she couldn't allow those feelings to break out. She needed to keep herself under control, logical, steady. There was work to be done.

"Missed you at breakfast," Finn said. "I thought you and Star might drop by."

"Shit, Finn, I'm sorry. Caught a case and I completely forgot. I should have called."

"Hey, no worries. I get it." Sheila heard the click of a TV remote, then a thump as the remote was tossed aside. "What kind of case?" he asked.

"Body found at Mountain Peak Resort. Killer posed him like some kind of frozen statue."

"Seriously?" She could hear him shifting in his hospital bed. "What's your theory? Why would someone do that?"

Sheila leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

She wanted to tell him everything—about how the killer had recreated Greenwald's final social media post, about the careful positioning of the body, about all the questions racing through her mind.

Finn would understand her instincts, help her sort through the chaos of possibilities. That's what partners did.

But she could hear the strain in his voice, the way he was trying to hide his pain. He'd been shot less than forty-eight hours ago, for goodness' sake. He needed to focus on healing, not on solving cases.

"You need to rest, not work cases from your hospital bed," she finally said.

"Come on, Sheila. I'm going stir-crazy here. They won't even let me walk to the bathroom without supervision."

She smiled despite herself. Classic Finn, hating to be sidelined. "Doctor's orders. Besides, I've got help."

"Yeah? Who're you working with?"

"Tommy Forster. He's actually doing pretty well with this one."

The silence that followed felt heavy. She could picture Finn in his hospital bed, jaw clenching slightly the way it did when he was trying not to show what he was feeling.

"Forster?" he finally said. "The rookie?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem." But she knew him too well to miss the forced casualness in his voice. "Just... be careful, okay? He's still green."

"Finn..."

"I should go. Physical therapy in ten minutes."

"I'll try to stop by later," she said, hating how inadequate the words felt.

"Sure. If you're not too busy."

The line went dead before she could respond. Sheila stared at her phone, her chest tight with a mixture of guilt and frustration. She should have visited him this morning. Should have called, at least. Instead, she'd thrown herself into the case, just like she always did.

And now she'd mentioned Tommy, which clearly bothered Finn more than he wanted to admit. She couldn't blame him. Being stuck in that hospital bed while she worked cases with someone else—especially someone young and eager to prove himself—had to be difficult.

But she couldn't deal with that right now. She had a killer to catch.

Taking a deep breath, she headed back into the security office, where Michael was showing Tommy footage from other cameras.

"I think we've seen all we can from the footage," Tommy said, stifling a yawn.

"Not yet." Sheila leaned closer to the screens. "Michael, can you pull up earlier footage? Let's start with yesterday morning."

"That's a lot of footage to review," Tommy said carefully.

"Sometimes the most important details show up hours before the crime," Sheila said, not taking her eyes off the monitors. "People argue. Make threats. Create motives."

Michael nodded approvingly as his fingers moved across the keyboard. "Starting at 7 AM—that's when the lifts opened yesterday."

They watched the morning crowd filter in, the usual mix of families and serious skiers hitting the slopes early. Greenwald appeared on several cameras throughout the morning, taking photos just as Rachel Caffrey had described.

"Wait," Sheila said suddenly. "Go back. Camera four, around 9:30."

Michael rewound the footage. There—at the edge of the frame, they could see Greenwald gesturing animatedly at someone. The other person was mostly out of frame, but Sheila caught a flash of distinctive red and black ski pants with a geometric pattern.

"Can you clean that up at all?" she asked.

Michael worked his magic with the footage, enhancing and stabilizing the image. The argument became clearer—Greenwald pointing at something, the other person's hands raised in obvious frustration.

"Those ski pants," Michael said, his voice tight. "I know exactly who that is. Diana Pierce."

"Another instructor?" Tommy asked.

"One of our best," Michael said. "Been here almost as long as I have. She's on our management team, too, but teaching is her real passion. Those are her lucky ski pants—says they helped her win the '98 regionals." He frowned at the screen. "But I've never seen her that angry before."

Sheila studied the footage. "What were they arguing about?"

"Hard to tell from this angle," Michael said. "But look at Greenwald's body language—he's pointing up the slope. Maybe something about his skiing?"

"Can we get audio?"

Michael shook his head. "These cameras are video only."

"Where's Pierce now?" Sheila asked.

"Should be teaching. She has an advanced class at ten." Michael checked his watch. "They'll be finishing up soon on Lower Horizon."

Sheila straightened. "Tommy, you're with me. Michael, get me everything you have on Diana Pierce—employment records, incident reports, anything."

"You think she's involved?" Tommy asked as they headed for the door.

"I think someone who knows skiing well enough to teach it would know exactly how to position a body in perfect form."

"But why? Over an argument?"

"That's what we're going to find out."