Read Chapter 23: Shadows

The generator shed stank of diesel and frozen metal. Gaspard lay under a tarp in the corner, his face a waxy mask in the beam of Marcel's headlamp. Luc had told himself he wouldn't look again. He looked.

"Belmont," Gaspard had whispered. The name meant nothing to the others. But the shape of it—the way the old man's tongue had curled around the consonants—had triggered something in Luc's chest that he couldn't name yet. He'd been turning it over for hours, the way a man worries a loose tooth.

"His gear." Ali stood in the doorway, snow crusting his beard. "I went through his pack before we brought him down. Walking sticks, crampons, a thermos. Nothing identifying."

Luc nodded. Gaspard had known what Belmont looked like. He'd seen him. And Belmont had seen Gaspard, and had tried to kill him for it. Which meant Belmont was someone who could move through the resort without raising alarm. Someone who had access to the lodge, to the generator, to the slopes.

"You're thinking it's a guest," Ali said.

"I'm thinking it's someone who's been here from the start." Luc pulled the tarp back over Gaspard's face. "The sabotage began before we arrived. Before the storm. Someone wanted the audit to fail, and they've been posing as part of this group the whole time."

Ali's eyes flicked toward the lodge. "You think you can spot him?"

"I think I can try."

They made their way back through the blizzard, heads down against the freezing needles of snow. The lodge loomed ahead, its windows glowing amber—a false promise of warmth. Inside, the group had gathered in the main hall, a tense tableau of survivors: the Kessler siblings arguing quietly by the fire, Viktor nursing a glass of something dark, Camille sitting apart from the others, her notepad open on her knee. Marcel stood by the door, his hand straying to the pocket of his parka, the same guarded gesture Luc had seen before.

Luc stamped the snow from his boots and swept the room. Eleven people, including his own team. Eleven faces, each veiled in exhaustion and suspicion. One of them wore another man's name.

He started with the manifests. The lodge's guest register was in the office off the main hall, a leather-bound ledger that smelled of old paper and neglect. Luc flipped through it, scanning names and nationalities, dates of arrival. Eight guests had checked in the week before the storm. Four couples, all of them wealthy, all of them strangers to one another.

The Kesslers: Ingrid and her younger brother Felix, German, here for a family trust meeting. Viktor Brandt, Danish industrialist, solo traveler. The Costas, a retired French couple from Lyon. And a pair of Americans—a woman named Sarah and her partner, David.

None of them had raised flags. Luc hadn't expected them to.

He found Viktor's room unlocked. The Dane was still in the main hall, nursing his drink, his bandaged hand resting on the arm of his chair. Luc slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The room smelled of expensive cologne and something sour underneath—stress, maybe, or fear.

He worked quickly. The suitcase was leather, monogrammed VB, lined with silk. Luc lifted layers of cashmere sweaters and pressed shirts, feeling for anything solid. Nothing. The side pockets yielded a toiletry kit, a paperback novel in Danish, a pair of reading glasses. He checked the wardrobe, the bathroom, the safe—empty.

Then he found it. A false bottom in the suitcase, lifted by a tab of cleverly matched leather. Inside: a second passport. Dark blue cover, gold embossed eagle. Not Danish. The photograph inside showed a lean face with sharp cheekbones and calculating eyes. It wasn't Viktor.

It wasn't anyone Luc had seen before.

He stared at the image, his mind churning. The passport belonged to the man they'd found dead in the snow drift, the one Pierre had claimed was a food critic. The conman. Belmont, maybe—or the man Belmont had chosen to play.

Luc checked the name: *Henri Vasseur*. The photo matched the corpse. But the passport was in Viktor's luggage.

Footsteps in the corridor. Luc shoved the passport into his jacket and snapped the false bottom back into place, closing the suitcase with practiced ease. He was straightening his shirt when the door opened.

Viktor stood in the doorway, his face a hard mask of suspicion. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Checking the windows." Luc's voice was calm, apologetic. "The seals are failing. You'll want to keep the curtains closed to preserve heat."

Viktor's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe him—Luc could see it in the tightening of his jaw. But he couldn't prove anything, and challenging the only man who knew how to keep them alive was a losing bet. He stepped aside, allowing Luc to pass.

Luc walked back to the main hall with the passport burning against his ribs. A fake identity hidden in a guest's luggage. A photo of a dead man. But the photo wasn't Viktor. So who was he covering for?

He found Camille by the fire, her pen frozen over her notepad. She looked up as he approached, reading something in his expression. "You found something."

"Maybe." He sat beside her, keeping his voice low. "Viktor's hiding a passport. It belongs to the dead man—the one Pierre knew."

Camille's brow furrowed. "Why would Viktor have a dead man's passport?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Luc leaned closer, the firelight flickering across his face. "The photo doesn't match Viktor. It matches the corpse. So either Viktor planted it, or someone else did, to make him look guilty."

"Or someone is using Viktor as a mule without his knowledge." Camille bit her lip. "You think Belmont stashed it there?"

Luc considered the possibility. The sabotage had been professional, precise. Brandon—Belmont—had been careful. Killing Gaspard in the ravine, sabotaging the satellite phone, draining the generator batteries. He left no trail. But the passport was a mistake. A loose thread.

Unless it wasn't a mistake.

He thought of Gaspard's dying word again, the shape of it forming in his mind like a word on the tip of his own tongue. "Belmont." No. That wasn't it. The old man's final whisper had been hoarse, truncated, the last breath of a dying throat. Luc had heard what he wanted to hear. But the shape—

The shape had been longer. More complicated.

He stood abruptly. Camille grabbed his sleeve. "Where are you going?"

"To check the luggage manifests again. The passports of the other guests."

Camille rose with him. "I'll help."

They moved through the lodge in careful silence, checking rooms where guests were absent, working through the Costa couple's luggage, then the Americans'. Ingrid Kessler's room was neat to the point of obsession, her clothes folded with military precision. Felix's was a chaos of expensive tech and half-eaten snacks. None of them yielded anything unusual.

Luc returned to the main hall, frustration gnawing at him. The passport was a false clue, or he was missing something bigger. He sank into a chair by the window, watching the snow pile against the glass.

Marcel appeared beside him, silent as a shadow. The old handyman's headlamp was still on, throwing a cone of light across the floor. "You look like a man who's lost something."

"Found something I can't explain." Luc glanced at Marcel's pocket, where the guarded gesture had become almost habitual. "What about you? You've been carrying something since the generator shed."

Marcel's eyes flickered. He glanced around the room, making sure no one was watching, then reached into his pocket. For a moment, Luc thought he was finally going to reveal what he'd been hiding.

But Marcel withdrew only his hand, empty, and pressed it against his thigh. His voice was barely a whisper. "Not yet. Trust no one."

He walked away, leaving Luc staring after him. The headlamp beam swept across the room, briefly illuminating Viktor's face. The Dane's eyes met Luc's for a fraction of a second before sliding away. Guilt or fear—Luc couldn't tell the difference anymore.

He pulled the passport from his jacket and opened it one more time. Henri Vasseur. Professional conman. Dead in the snow. And somewhere in the lodge, a man named Belmont was watching, waiting, ready to bury them all.

Luc closed the passport. The shape of Gaspard's dying word finally formed in his mind—not *Belmont*. A different name. A name that made everything worse.

He tucked the passport back into his jacket. He wasn't ready to say it aloud yet. Not until he had proof.