Read Chapter 29: The Irony

The utility room smelled of damp wool and rust. Camille knelt on the cold concrete, the flashlight beam trembling over the opened panel behind the boiler. She’d found the detonator wire earlier—neatly coiled, freshly cut, professional. But behind the panel, tucked into a hollow space where ancient pipes met newer PVC, there was something else. A small steel box. Fireproof. Locked.

She didn’t need to pick the lock. The key was taped to the underside of the boiler’s access hatch, and she found it with two fingers, the tape peeling away like dead skin.

The box swung open with a sigh. Inside: folded papers, a flash drive, and a stack of cash held together by a rubber band that snapped when she touched it. She unfolded the top paper. It was an insurance policy. Not for the lodge—Henri’s name was printed across the top, his signature in wet blue ink at the bottom. The policy was for his guiding company. The one that was failing.

Payout clause: total destruction of primary business assets, including base infrastructure, due to natural disaster or catastrophic weather event.

Camille read it twice. Then she read the second page. That’s when her hand started to shake.

The door creaked behind her. She spun, the flashlight catching Luc’s face as he stepped inside, pulling the door shut against the howl of the storm.

“You should have told me where you were going,” he said.

“And you should have told me Henri was running an insurance fraud scheme.” She held up the paper. “The weather station. The ‘accident’ that forced you to come here. He didn’t do it for a story. He did it for the payout. The storm was supposed to destroy the lodge’s heating system—the boiler was the target. The whole trip was a setup to trigger his policy.”

Luc’s jaw tightened. He took the paper, scanned it, then looked at the box. “What else is in there?”

“Cash. A flash drive. And this.” She pulled out a third sheet, folded into quarters. When she opened it, the ink was faded but legible. A list of names. Dates. She recognized Gaspard’s hand—he must have written it years ago, during his early days as a guide.

“What is it?”

“An expedition roster,” she said slowly. “Gaspard’s old group. From a trip he led in the Alps, about ten years before he bought this place.” Her finger traced down the list. Halfway down, one name jumped out. “Belmont. First name here. Gaspard penciled it in.”

Luc’s breath caught. He leaned closer, the flashlight making the name glow in the dark. “Belmont is a person.”

“Was a person. Gaspard’s client.” She looked up. “The same name he said when he died. Not an alias. Not a codename. A real name.”

Luc was quiet for a long moment. The storm rattled the window frames. Somewhere above them, a door slammed.

“Gaspard led a trip where Belmont was a client,” he said slowly. “And something happened on that trip. Something Gaspard never talked about. But he carried the name with him until the moment he died.”

“You think Belmont is here,” Camille whispered. “In this lodge.”

“I think someone on this trip is using that name as a ghost. And I think whoever they are, they knew Gaspard would recognize it. They wanted him to die with that name on his lips.” He looked at the box again. “Henri’s insurance play was small-time. Sabotage for money. But someone else saw what he was doing and copied him. Same methods. Same distraction. Only their goal wasn’t a payout.”

Camille’s flashbeam steadied. “It was murder.”

Luc nodded. Then he went still. The memory came to him uninvited—the sauna, the blood smeared on the cedar bench, the way Gaspard’s body had been laid out with too much care, almost ceremonial. He had assumed it was frenzy. Panic. The killer’s haste.

But it wasn’t haste. The blood had been wiped clean in one direction. Drawn, not smeared. A single deliberate finger stroke, the kind of mark you make when you want to leave a signature.

“The sauna,” he said. “The blood pattern. I thought I was too slow to read it before the others arrived. But it wasn’t random.” He looked at Camille. “Whoever killed Gaspard was in the sauna with him. And the blood was still wet when the rest of us got there. Which means the killer was in the room when we found the body.”

“Or left seconds before.”

“No.” He shook his head, certain. “Gaspard was dead less than two minutes when we came in. The killer would have had to pass us in the corridor. No one did. That means—”

“They were still there,” she finished. “Hiding. When you all came in, they were still in the sauna.”

Luc’s stomach turned. He replayed the scene in his mind’s eye: the steam, the blood, the press of bodies crowding in behind him. He had assumed the killer was gone. He had torn into the changing room, the corridor, the snow outside. But the sauna itself—he’d stood in the center, turning, shouting.

And Viktor had been the last one in. He remembered the awkward shuffle, the way Viktor had lingered by the door, blocking the exit. Not looking out. Looking in.

“Viktor was first to declare Gaspard dead,” Luc said quietly. “He didn’t check for a pulse. He just looked at him and told the room.”

Camille’s face went pale. “Tell me you have more than that.”

“I have the compass. The map room sabotage. Whoever redirected us toward the west ridge knew the terrain and knew the storm patterns. That’s not a tourist’s knowledge. That’s a guide’s.”

“Henri was a guide.”

“Henri’s sabotage was crude. A broken transmitter. A misfired weather reading. But the compass was precision work. Magnified, calibrated, hidden so no one would find it until we were already lost.” He tapped the insurance paper. “Henri couldn’t have done both. He doesn’t have the patience for fine work.”

Camille stared at him. “So if Henri’s only trying to cash out, and the real saboteur copied his tricks to hide a murder, then the real saboteur knew about Henri’s plan before we did.”

“They watched him set it up,” Luc said. “Or they’ve been here long enough to learn everyone’s secrets. And when they killed Gaspard, they used Henri’s chaos as cover. The storm, the failing lights, the blackout—all distractions.”

He looked back at the roster. Gaspard’s handwriting was neat, almost feminine, the letters leading one into the other. At the bottom of the page, in a space meant for additional notes, Gaspard had written two words in a darker ink, pressed harder into the paper.

*Don’t trust.*

“What does that mean?” Camille asked.

“It means Gaspard knew Belmont showed up again. And he knew why.”

He folded the paper and slipped it inside his jacket. The storm outside gave a full-throated roar, rattling the walls. Somewhere above them, a floorboard groaned under a footstep.

Camille looked up at the ceiling. “That wasn’t the wind.”

Luc followed her gaze. The groaning had come from the corridor outside the kitchen, near the common room. Someone was up and moving when they shouldn’t be. The buddy system was still in force, and everyone was supposed to be paired and stationary until dawn.

He put a finger to his lips. Moved to the door. Pressed his ear against the cold wood.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate. Pausing outside, then moving on.

“Whoever it is,” he whispered, “they’re heading for the back staircase.”

“The one that leads to the basement.”

“The one that leads to the sauna.”

He turned the handle slowly, the latch clicking open with a sound that felt too loud in the dark. The corridor beyond was empty, snow pressing against the window at the far end, the storm a white blur beyond the glass. But at the far corner, where the back staircase descended into shadow, the faintest trace of movement flickered and vanished.

Luc looked back at Camille. “Stay with Henri. Don’t let anyone else near him. Not even if they tell you they’re relieving you.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see who visits a dead man’s room in the middle of a blizzard.”