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The administration building at Mountain Peak Resort looked like an oversized ski chalet, all exposed beams and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Inside, Michael Wright waited for them in a corner office, a manila envelope laid carefully on the desk before him.

A young woman in a resort polo shirt hovered nearby, wringing her hands.

"Kelly found it in the internal mail slot," Michael explained, nodding toward the woman. "Right between a maintenance request and the weekly revenue report."

"What time?" Sheila asked.

"Around eleven-thirty." Kelly stepped forward. "I always sort the mail before lunch. It wasn't there when I checked at nine."

Sheila studied the envelope. It was unremarkable—standard office supply store stock, no writing on the outside. "Security cameras?"

Michael shook his head. "The mail slot's in a blind spot. We've got footage of the hallway, but there's too much foot traffic to track everyone who passed by."

Tommy pulled on latex gloves. "May I?"

Sheila nodded, and he carefully opened the envelope.

The photograph inside was printed on high-quality paper, the kind professional photographers used.

Bradley Greenwald's frozen form was captured in perfect detail, early morning light turning the ice crystals on his skin into diamonds.

The composition was flawless—mountain peaks framing the body, shadows adding depth, every element precisely arranged.

"It's like a work of art," Tommy said quietly.

"That's what bothers me," Sheila replied. She turned to Kelly. "You can go. But we'll need to talk to you later about everyone who had access to this area."

After Kelly left, Sheila leaned closer to the photo. "No watermark, no timestamp. Nothing is written on the back. Professional quality paper though—high-end photo stock."

"Could we trace the paper?" Tommy asked.

"Maybe." Sheila turned the photo carefully, studying the borders. "But this kind of paper is sold at any professional photography shop. Half the photographers on the mountain probably use it."

"What about the printing itself?" Michael suggested. "That level of quality—it had to be printed on professional equipment."

"Agreed." Sheila set the photo down. "Tommy, what photo labs do we have in the area?"

"Three in town," he said, flipping through his notebook. "Plus the resort's own photo center."

"Four possibilities," Sheila mused. "And that's assuming our killer didn't print it at home. Professional photo printers aren't cheap, but they're not impossible to get."

"We could check recent purchases," Tommy said.

"Good thought, but too broad a net. Half the professional photographers in Utah probably bought new equipment in the past year."

"What about fingerprints?"

"We can call the lab, have them send someone over, but I'm not optimistic. The way this was all staged shows extreme attention to detail. I doubt our killer would be so careless as to leave fingerprints."

They were all silent for a few moments.

"He's showing off," Tommy said suddenly.

Sheila turned to him. "What makes you say that?"

"The composition, the quality, the careful handling—it's like a gallery submission. He wants us to appreciate his work."

Sheila was about to respond when her phone buzzed. Mrs. Jacobs' name lit up the screen. The elderly woman lived next door and had been keeping an eye on Star since Sheila took guardianship of the girl.

"Sorry, I need to take this," Sheila said, stepping away from the desk. "Mrs. Jacobs?"

"Sheila, dear." The older woman's voice carried its usual warmth, but something else lurked beneath. "I hate to bother you at work, but I'm a bit concerned about Star."

Sheila's stomach tightened. "What happened?"

"Well, with your heating being out, I offered to have her stay here until it's fixed. But she seemed quite upset. Said she was going to study with friends instead." Mrs. Jacobs paused. "She seemed... off. Not herself. I hate to make accusations, but I have the strange feeling she was lying to me."

"Did she say specifically where they were going?"

"No, just that they had a warm place to study. Sheila..." Mrs. Jacobs hesitated. "I know how hard you're trying with her. And she's such a good girl, really. But sometimes I worry she's feeling a bit lost. Especially with you working so much, and now Finn being in the hospital..."

"I know," Sheila said, guilt churning in her stomach. "I'll talk to her tonight. Thank you for looking out for her, Margaret."

"Of course, dear. You know I'm always here if either of you need anything."

Sheila ended the call and rubbed her forehead.

What was going on with Star? Though Sheila knew she'd made the right choice in becoming Star's guardian, there were times when she doubted she was the right person for the job.

Work so often left her feeling emotionally tapped out, and she knew Star needed more: needed her to be present, to be more than just the person who put a roof over her head.

But that was a problem for another time.

Sheila turned back to the desk, where Tommy was talking animatedly with Michael.

"Sheriff," Tommy said, eyes bright with excitement. "I think we might have something. Michael was telling me about a local photographer, Oscar Wells. He's known for his dramatic winter shots, especially of wildlife in extreme conditions."

"He's good," Michael added. "Got a cabin up near Eagle's Point. Takes the kind of photos you'd see in National Geographic."

"And," Tommy continued, "he's been complaining about social media influencers 'corrupting' real photography. According to Michael, he got into an argument with another ski photographer last month about staging shots."

Sheila picked up the photo of Bradley again. The composition did feel professional—not the work of an amateur or casual killer.

"Sounds like someone who would know the mountain," she said slowly. "Know where to take someone without being seen."

"And how to work in extreme cold," Tommy added. "You'd need that knowledge to pose a body in freezing conditions."

Sheila nodded. "Michael, get me everything you have on Wells. Employment records, incident reports, anything. Tommy and I will pay him a visit."

* * *

The road to Oscar Wells' cabin deteriorated with each mile.

What started as plowed pavement gave way to gravel, then to packed snow, and finally to deep drifts that threatened to swallow the patrol car whole.

Sheila maintained steady pressure on the accelerator, trying to keep their momentum through a particularly nasty stretch.

"Maybe we should have brought the four-wheel drive," Tommy said, gripping the door handle as they fishtailed slightly.

"We're fine. I've driven these roads for years." Sheila corrected their slide with practiced ease. "Wells' cabin should be just around this bend."

The bend, however, had other ideas. As they rounded the corner, the patrol car's front wheels suddenly sank into what looked like solid snow but was actually a deep drift. The engine whined, tires spinning uselessly.

"Damn it." Sheila shifted into reverse, then forward again. The car responded by digging itself deeper.

"Want me to take a look?" Tommy offered.

"I've got it." She tried rocking the car back and forth, a technique that had worked countless times before. But the more she tried, the more entrenched they became.

Tommy waited patiently through several more attempts before speaking again. "You know, I might have an idea."

Sheila sat back with a sigh, admitting defeat. "Alright, Officer Forster. Show me what you've got."

They climbed out into knee-deep snow. The cold hit like a slap, and the wind had picked up, carrying the promise of worse weather moving in. Tommy circled the car, assessing their situation.

"Yep, thought so." He pointed to where the front wheels had dug themselves into icy holes. "We need something to give the tires traction. There are some pine branches over there—if we lay them right, we can create a path."

"That's going to take forever," Sheila said, but she was already following him toward the trees.

"Better than waiting for a tow truck." Tommy began breaking off suitable branches. "When I was a rookie in Salt Lake, my training officer made me practice getting patrol cars unstuck. Said a cop who can't handle winter roads is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine."

Sheila helped him gather branches, watching as he demonstrated how to layer them. "Your training officer sounds like a character."

"Oh, he was. Drove this ancient Crown Vic that should've been retired years ago.

Said it had personality." Tommy grinned at the memory.

"One night, we got stuck kind of like this while responding to a call.

Middle of nowhere, no backup coming. He shows me this trick with the branches, gets us out in fifteen minutes flat. "

"Were you still able to respond to the call, then?"

"Yeah." Tommy chuckled softly. "There was this guy we'd been trying to collar for a while—mid-level drug pusher.

He knew we were after him, but that didn't stop him from sneaking into his girlfriend's apartment.

We had the place under surveillance, so we got there and backed up the unit already on site. "

"Did you catch the guy?"

"We started clearing rooms, got the girlfriend out of the way.

I walk into the kitchen and see leftovers, condiments, I mean all kinds of things just strewn across the floor in front of the refrigerator.

And guess what I should find inside the refrigerator?

" He chuckled. "He must've thought he was so clever. "

Sheila said nothing. The story was oddly familiar—she thought she'd heard it before. "Was this in Liberty Park?" she asked.

Tommy looked up, surprised. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Because Hank Dawson tells that story at every department Christmas party."

Tommy's cheeks reddened, and not just from the cold. "Yeah, well…" He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Studying him, Sheila suddenly realized why he looked vaguely familiar. "Oh my goodness," she said. "You're related to him, aren't you?"

He cleared his throat, looking away. "Yeah, he's my uncle. Great-uncle, technically." He suddenly became very interested in adjusting a branch. "I don't usually mention it. People tend to assume..."

"That you got the job because of him?"

"Yeah." He straightened up, meeting her eyes. "But I didn't. I worked my way through the academy just like everyone else. Did my time in patrol in Salt Lake. When this position opened up, Uncle Hank actually tried to talk me out of applying. Said I should stay in the city, build my career there."

"But you came anyway."

"I wanted to work somewhere I could make a difference. Not just respond to calls, but really be part of a community." He shrugged. "Uncle Hank being interim sheriff after your sister... it almost made me change my mind. But this is where I wanted to be."

Sheila studied him with new eyes. She'd assumed he was fresh out of the academy, eager but green. But there was more depth there than she'd given him credit for. More experience. More thought behind his choices.

"Alright," Tommy said, stepping back from their handiwork. "That should do it. Want me to drive?"

"Cool your jets, rookie." Sheila climbed back behind the wheel, then eased the car forward. The branches creaked under the tires, but held. With a final push, they broke free of the drift.

"Nice work, Officer Forster," she said, genuinely impressed.

Tommy grinned as he brushed snow from his uniform. "Like I said, sometimes the simple solution is the right one."

As they pulled back onto more solid ground, Sheila couldn't help noticing how much she enjoyed Tommy's company. Being around him was easy, without any of the complexities of a romantic relationship. There were no deep emotions that needed to be explored, no life-changing choices to be made.

And it didn't hurt that was easy on the eyes.

Just then, while she was thinking about this, her phone buzzed. A message from Finn: How's the investigation going? Could use some company if you're free later.

Flooded with guilt, Sheila set the phone aside without responding. She'd fill him in later, after they talked to Wells. She needed to process what she was feeling before talking with him.

The cabin appeared ahead, a modern structure of glass and cedar that seemed to grow right out of the mountainside. Smoke rose from the chimney, but no vehicles were visible in the snow-covered driveway.

They trudged through pristine snow to the cabin's front door. No footprints marred the surface—if Wells was home, he hadn't left recently. The smoke curling from the chimney looked thin, suggesting a fire burning low.

Sheila knocked firmly. The sound seemed muffled by the surrounding snow, absorbed into the winter stillness. No response.

She tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.

"Sheriff," Tommy called softly from the side of the house. He stood at a large window, one hand cupped against the glass. "You need to see this."

Sheila joined him, their shoulders brushing as she leaned in to look. The cabin's interior was spartanly furnished—a few pieces of handcrafted furniture, walls covered in framed nature photographs. But it was what sat on the kitchen table that made her breath catch.

A camera. High-end, professional grade.

"Think it's Greenwald's?" Tommy asked.

"I don't know," Sheila murmured. "But it sure looks a lot like the one Greenwald was wearing in the picture Amanda showed us."