Read Chapter 13: After Math

The heat from the fireplace barely reached the corner where Luc had gathered them. Camille sat with her back to the wall, her nurse’s eyes tracking the room’s other occupants the way a hawk watches field mice. Ali kept his hands busy, rolling a spent matchstick between his fingers, his gaze flicking toward the murmur of voices near the bar—Viktor holding court, Ingrid pretending to listen, Lars polishing a glass that didn’t need polishing.

Luc kept his voice low. “We have maybe twenty minutes before someone wonders why the three of us are huddled together like conspirators.”

“Because we are conspirators,” Ali said. It wasn’t a joke.

“I want you both to understand what I found out there before you agree to anything.” Luc recounted it flatly: the bridge cut, the rope pre-sliced and re-clipped, the tracks doubled back to the chalet. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The words hung heavy in the space between them.

Camille’s jaw tightened. “Someone wanted you dead before you reached that hut.”

“Someone wanted it to look like an accident,” Luc corrected. “The ravine’s deep enough. The snow would’ve swallowed me by spring.”

Ali stopped rolling the matchstick. “And you think it’s someone in this room? Right now?”

“The tracks ended here. Not outside, not in the woods. Here.” Luc let that settle. “I’ve been through this group more times than I can count. Viktor’s arrogant but he’s not subtle—he couldn’t cross a room without making a speech about it. Ingrid’s been glued to the bar since the avalanche, terrified of the dark, checking flashlights twice a day. Lars is a cook; he’s barely left the kitchen. The Delacroix couple haven’t stopped bickering long enough to plan anything more complex than a divorce.”

“And Henri?” Camille’s voice was careful.

Luc paused. The question had been coming. “Henri was alone in that room with communication equipment he didn’t want anyone to know about. He sent me out alone. He knew the route I’d take.”

“But he also climbed that roof to fix the generator,” Ali said. “He could have let us freeze.”

“That’s the problem,” Luc admitted. “Every suspect has an alibi of usefulness. Henri was in the room with Camille when the knocking started. Viktor was helping dig the entrance. Ingrid was with Nadia when she was hurt.” He shook his head. “And the note the previous guide left mentioned a client. Just one. But it didn’t say which.”

Camille exhaled slowly. “You don’t know who you’re hunting.”

“I know someone in this chalet wanted me gone tonight. And whoever it is knew I’d go to the patrol hut—which means they knew about Henri’s suggestion before I even mentioned it to anyone.” He glanced toward the bar. Viktor was laughing, gesturing with one hand, a glass of something amber in the other. “Or they know how often rescue parties use that route.”

Ali leaned forward. “So what do we do?”

Luc reached into his pocket and pulled out the cut length of rope, coil neat and precise. He set it on the table between them. “We keep this quiet. We don’t accuse anyone without more proof. But we don’t trust anyone alone either.”

“That’s impossible,” Camille said. “We’re sharing a chalet with eight people in a snowstorm. Someone’s always alone.”

“Then we make sure they’re never alone in the wrong rooms.” Luc nodded toward the hallway. “The locked room Henri kept. I found the door ajar. If there was anything else in there, it’s probably been moved already, but I want someone checking it on each rotation. Not opening anything, just looking. Noting if anything changes.”

Ali nodded slowly. “I can do that. The tech room’s near mine. I can pass by naturally.”

“And the others?” Camille asked.

“We watch them,” Luc said. “Not like we’re in the same room. Like we care about them. Check their hands, their injuries. See who’s wearing extra layers—who might be hiding something under their clothes. Who has burns on their fingers.” He remembered the half-burned photograph in his pocket, the scarred man’s face already framed by flame before he’d pulled it free. “Who’s got fresh cuts or scrapes they can’t explain.”

“The bridge was cut with a saw,” Ali said. “That leaves a mess on your clothes, your hands. Metal filings.”

Luc nodded. “Between the three of us, we should be able to cover the group without raising suspicion. Camille, you’re checking on Nadia’s injuries anyway—use that to see everyone’s hands when they help. Ali, you handle the rooms, the windows, anything technical. I’ll track movement. Who goes where. Who’s where they shouldn’t be.”

“And Henri?” Camille repeated.

Luc took a breath. “I watch Henri myself. He knows too much about my father, and he’s been too convenient in his explanations. If he’s guilty, I want to be the one to find it.”

“If he’s not?” Ali asked.

“Then we still have a saboteur in this building, and Henri has information that might lead me to them.” Luc slipped the rope back into his pocket. “But I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him in this snow.”

Camille studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. “You came back out here. Alone, in the dark, with a cut bridge and a sabotaged rope. Most people would have refused to go at all.”

“Refusing wasn’t an option,” Luc said.

“That’s not what I mean.” She leaned in slightly. “You came back because you wanted to protect the rest of us. That’s a kind of courage that doesn’t think twice. I’ve seen it in soldiers, in parents, in people who’ve already lost something important.” She paused. “You’ve lost something. I can tell.”

Luc held her gaze. “My father was a guide. He died in an avalanche eight years ago. I was trapped in the same pocket, and I got out.” The words came easier than he expected. “Henri found his body. That’s what he told me. But before tonight, no one ever told me much more than that.”

“That’s why you need to live,” Camille said, not a question.

“That’s why I need the truth,” Luc corrected. “And if it turns out my father’s death was covered up, someone is going to answer for it.”

Ali looked between them, then toward the bar. Raisa had joined the group there, laughing at something Viktor said—a hollow, nervous sound in the cold room. “What about the knocking? Whoever was at the door, they used the signal. Your signal, isn’t that what you said?”

Luc’s stomach tightened. “My father’s emergency pattern. Three short, two long. It was his.”

“So whoever is outside knows something about your father too?” Ali pressed.

“Or knew him.” The thought was icy panic creeping up his spine. “Knew him well enough to copy his signal.”

Camille’s eyebrows knitted. “The previous guide. The one who left your note. Do you think he knew your father?”

“I don’t know what he knew.” Luc rubbed his temples. “But he disappeared right before this storm hit. And he left me a note saying there was a problem with one of the clients. He’s the thread I’m missing. If I can find him, I might understand who’s hunting us.”

“Out there?” Ali gestured vaguely at the snow-covered windows. “In this?”

“When the storm breaks. The patrol hut has a radio. If I’d made it there, I could’ve called for help. The fact that someone stopped me means they don’t want that radio used.” Luc looked at each of them in turn. “Which means they need us trapped. All of us. And the likely reason is that when rescue comes, they’ll be found out.”

The fire popped, sending a spark skittering across the hearth. Camille crushed it with her boot without looking down.

“So we play a longer game,” she said. “We freeze them out before they freeze us.”

“Or we thaw them into a confession.” Ali’s voice was resigned but determined. “Either way, we do it slow.”

Luc let the silence stretch around them. The wind moaned against the chalet’s walls, a low note like the throat of an animal in pain. Beyond the glass, the storm had eased to a fizzing white drift—nothing falling, but the snow stacked in slabs against the entrance, sealing them in.

“From now on,” he said, “we share everything we see. Colors, sounds, smells, anything out of place. We meet here every four hours, no matter the watch rotation. If someone notices we’re gone, we’re changing dressings or checking supplies.”

Camille stood, brushing ash from her sleeve. “I’ll start with the others’ hands. Nurses notice these things.”

Ali rose too. “I’ll make my rounds. See if anyone’s left their room unlocked or their door ajar.”

Luc watched them go—Ali stopping to say something to Raisa on his way to the hallway, Camille settling beside Nadia with her medical kit, her murmuring voice a balm against the anxious silence. The group near the bar had thinned. Viktor was leaning against the counter now, his glass empty, swaying slightly with drink.

Luc stayed at the table, the warmth of the fire failing to reach his chest. He pulled the photograph from his pocket once more, careful to keep it hidden in his palm. The scarred man’s eyes were his father’s eyes. There was no mistaking it. And Henri had known it well enough to keep the photo in a locked room, hidden behind a disabled power supply, buried in the debris of a life he refused to explain.

He tucked it away again. The storm outside was holding its breath, and he had a feeling it wasn’t done with them yet.