Read Chapter 16: Slope

The wind had picked up again, sawing through the treeline in thin, angry gusts. Luc knelt beside the body, the cold seeping through the knees of his shell pants, and tried to make the face fit a memory that was just out of reach. The man’s skin had gone waxy, the cheeks hollowed by exposure, but the structure was still there—the high brow, the narrow jaw, the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

“You know him,” Camille said. It wasn’t a question.

Luc nodded slowly, not looking up. “I’ve seen his face before. On a poster. In the Gare de Lyon, about two years back.” He traced a gloved finger along the line of the dead man’s jaw, then pulled his hand away. “Mikhail Voss. Con man. Ran an insurance fraud ring that bilked three alpine resorts out of nearly four million euros. Interpol wanted him.”

Ali shifted his weight, kicking a chunk of snow off his boot. “And he’s here. In a private chalet, buried like a stray dog.”

“Not buried,” Luc said, standing. The joints in his knees protested. He’d been kneeling too long. “Staged. Look at the way the snow’s packed around the body. It’s not natural drift. Someone dug this out, put him down, and covered him over. The body was positioned after death—arms at the sides, legs straight. That’s not how you fall in a whiteout.”

Camille crouched now, brushing a crust of ice from the dead man’s sleeve. “The boot. The mismatch. You think that was deliberate too?”

“I think someone wanted us to find him. Or wanted us to find that receipt.” Luc reached into his own pocket, where the folded fuel slip sat against his thigh. He didn’t pull it out. Not yet.

Ali’s voice was low, careful. “The receipt had Nadia’s name on it.”

“So did half the fuel orders for this place,” Camille said quickly. “She handles logistics. That doesn’t make her a killer.”

“But it makes her a connection,” Luc said. He looked back at the body. The man’s face was still, almost peaceful, which was wrong. Men like Voss didn’t die peacefully. They died in parking garages, or on boats, or with their hands tied behind their backs. “Voss was here under a false name. I’d bet half my gear on it. He was running a con on someone in that chalet, and he got too close to the wrong mark.”

Ali crossed his arms. “Or he was the saboteur.”

“No.” Luc shook his head. “Saboteur needs to be alive. Walking around. Cutting ropes and bridges. Voss has been dead for at least three days—probably before the avalanche. The killer is still breathing.”

A gust of wind screamed through the trees, and all three of them turned to look back toward the chalet, its dark bulk half-buried in the snowfield. The windows glowed faintly, warm and fake as a stage set.

“We need to tell the others,” Camille said. “They have a right to know there’s a murderer in the house.”

“No.” Luc’s voice was flat. “We tell them now, we get panic. Panic makes people do stupid things. And the killer will find out exactly how much we know.”

Ali let out a short, humorless laugh. “So we just let them sit around the fire while one of them is a murderer?”

“We watch,” Luc said. “We watch and we wait, and we don’t let anyone slip away alone.”

They covered the body again with snow, working quickly, in silence. Luc felt the weight of the photograph in his chest, the one hidden in his pack—his father and the scarred man, standing shoulder to shoulder. He hadn’t told them. He couldn’t. Not yet.

Back inside, the chalet had changed.

The air was thick with the smell of burned meat and fear. Viktor stood by the fire, a glass in his hand, his face blotchy with drink and rage. Nadia was pressed into the corner of the sofa, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes darting from face to face. Harriet sat upright in an armchair, her jaw tight, her knuckles white around a teacup that had gone cold. Even Marcel, the guide who’d stayed quiet through every dinner, stood near the window, staring out at the dark.

“So,” Viktor said, his voice too loud, “the great expert comes back from his little hike. Did you find a road? A helicopter? A way out of this frozen hell?”

Luc shook the snow from his jacket. “No road. But I found tracks.”

Henri, who had appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, turned slowly. “Tracks?”

“Human tracks. Fresh. Leading from the chalet toward the treeline, then back again. Sometime in the last two days.” Luc let the lie settle. It wasn’t entirely false—the tracks had been there, even if they’d led back to the chalet from a different direction. “Who went out that way?”

Silence. Then Nadia’s voice, thin and frayed. “I went out. Yesterday morning. To check the generator shed.” She swallowed. “The door was iced shut. I didn’t go far.”

“Anyone else?” Luc scanned their faces. Harriet shook her head. Marcel shrugged. Viktor took a long drink, his eyes glittering over the rim of his glass.

“Why are you asking?” Viktor set the glass down with a clink too sharp to be casual. “You think one of us snuck out to build a snowman? We’re stuck here, Moreau. All of us. Maybe you should spend less time playing detective and more time figuring out how to get us down this mountain.”

Luc met his gaze. “I’m not playing anything, Viktor. The bridge is cut. The rope was sabotaged. Someone on this property doesn’t want us leaving.”

The room went still. Even the fire seemed to pause, the flames flattening against the logs.

Harriet set her teacup down with a deliberate click. “Are you saying one of us did that? That one of us is trying to—what? Kill us all?”

Luc didn’t answer. He let the question hang.

Viktor stepped forward, his chest puffed, his eyes wide and glossy. “You’re accusing me. I can see it in your face. You think I’m the one.” He jabbed a finger at Luc’s chest. “I’ve had enough of your quiet glances and your little walks. You and the lady doctor and the big man—you’ve been huddling like schoolchildren. What do you know?”

“Viktor,” Nadia said, her voice cracking. “Sit down.”

“No.” He rounded on her. “You’ve been jumpy all day. You know something. You’ve been hiding something since they found that body.”

“What body?” Harriet’s voice was sharp.

Luc cursed silently. The room had gone brittle, a pane of glass about to shatter.

“There was a body,” he said, his voice deliberate and even. “Buried near the treeline. We found it collecting firewood. It was a man—not one of us. He’d been there for days.”

Harriet’s face paled. Marcel turned from the window, his eyes sharpening. Nadia made a small sound, like a punched breath.

“Who was it?” Marcel asked. His accent was thick, his words careful.

“I don’t know yet,” Luc said. It was a lie, and he felt it burn in his throat. “The cold has made identification difficult. But I want to be clear—the death wasn’t accidental.”

Viktor’s jaw worked. “What do you mean, not accidental?”

“I mean there were marks on the body. Signs of violence. Whoever he was, he didn’t freeze to death.” Luc watched the room, cataloging every twitch, every blink.

Nadia had gone very white. Her hands were trembling in her lap. Viktor’s face was a mask of rage, but his eyes had shifted—calculating, measuring. Harriet looked ill, her teacup abandoned on the armrest. Marcel’s expression hadn’t changed, but his hand had drifted to his pocket.

“We need to secure the doors,” Luc said. “Lock everything. No more solo trips outside. And no one—no one—goes anywhere without telling another person first. We have a murderer in this chalet, and if we don’t find them, they’re going to pick us off one by one.”

“Or,” Viktor said, his voice suddenly too calm, “we already know who the murderer is.” He pointed at Luc. “You. You’ve been alone more than anyone. You’ve been outside the most. And every time you come back, something new is broken.”

Luc forced himself to stay still. “That’s convenient. And I’m sure you have proof.”

Viktor’s lips curled. “You want proof?” He turned to the group. “Ask him about the rope. His own rope. Ask him why the cut was so clean—why it was cut and then re-clipped, like someone wanted to find it before he fell. Ask him why he’s been lying about his father.”

The words hit the room like a thrown stone. Luc’s blood went cold.

Camille stepped forward. “What about his father?”

Viktor spread his hands, smiling now, a predator’s grin. “Ask him. Ask him what happened to Julien Moreau. Ask him what his father was doing in this valley twenty-five years ago.” He turned back to Luc. “I know who you are, Moreau. I knew your father. And he didn’t die climbing—he died running. Because he was the saboteur. Just like his son.”