Read Chapter 30: The List

The snow hissed against the chalet walls like a living thing, and Luc moved through the lower corridor with a coiled stillness, his boots silent on the stone. The sauna was ahead, its door cracked open, spilling a thin wedge of yellow light that flickered—candlelight, not electric. Someone was in there.

He pressed his back against the wall, breath shallow. The storm had muffled sound, but Luc heard it now: a low, rhythmic scrape. Metal on stone. Then a voice, muttering in a cadence that wasn't French.

Luc edged closer, fingers finding the cold grip of the fire poker he'd taken from the lounge. He couldn't see the face, only the shadow of a shoulder moving in the light.

"You might as well come in, Luc." The voice was calm. Sardonic. Familiar.

Ali.

Luc stepped into the doorway. Ali Nazari knelt before the sauna's wooden bench, a crowbar in his gloved hands, prying up a loose floorboard. A leather satchel lay open beside him, stuffed with papers.

"When did you learn my name well enough to use it with that accent?" Luc asked.

Ali didn't stop working. "The list was in the office safe. Behind the painting of Mont Blanc. You didn't think to check there?"

"I'm asking the questions." Luc stepped closer, the poker low at his side. "What is that?"

Ali finally looked up. His face was calm, but his eyes held the hard glint of a man who had stopped pretending. He reached into the opening and pulled out a laminated card, holding it up like a trophy.

It was a manifest. Dated four years prior. A private expedition to the Annapurna massif. Clients listed in neat, typewritten rows.

Belmont, No. 3. The name was circled in red pen. Beside it, in Gaspard's cramped handwriting: *Don't trust.*

"Gaspard kept copies of everything," Ali said, standing slowly. "Memories, receipts, insurance audits. He was a hoarder of grudges and paperwork." He held the manifest out to Luc. "This expedition. You weren't on it. But you've heard of it, haven't you?"

Luc's jaw tightened. Annapurna. Four years ago. A wealthy finance group had attempted a summit and lost two clients to a sudden avalanche. The guide had been fired, blamed for poor route judgment. A man named—

"Belmont isn't a surname," Ali said softly. "It's a code name. Gaspard used it for one person only. A client who paid him to keep silent about something." He tapped the circled name. "No. 3. Marie-Claire Belmont."

Luc stared at the sheet. "She died in that avalanche."

"Did she?" Ali tilted his head. "The body wasn't recovered. The family paid for a private search, but nothing was found. And nobody questioned it because the guide on that trip was too ashamed to open his mouth."

"Gaspard was the guide?"

"No." Ali shook his head slowly. "The guide was you, Luc."

The room went cold. Luc felt the words like a blade slipping between his ribs.

"I wasn't on Annapurna," he said flatly. "I never—"

"Check the date." Ali pointed at the corner of the manifest. "March 14. Four years ago. You were in Chamonix. Gaspard subcontracted you to lead that group because his usual partner had a family emergency. You took the job. You didn't file it with the union, but Gaspard kept the invoice."

Luc's chest tightened. He looked at the name again. Marie-Claire Belmont. A face floated up from the fog of memory—a woman with dark hair, a nervous laugh, a titanium hip implant that should have disqualified her from high-altitude climbing. He'd told her no. She'd pushed back. He'd signed the waiver anyway.

"My client list was destroyed in the accident," Luc managed.

"No. Gaspard kept it." Ali's voice was almost gentle now. "He kept everything that could be used later. And your career was ruined not because you made a routing error—it was because Belmont—Marie-Claire—was the one who died, and her husband had political power. Gaspard blamed you publicly, took the insurance money, and let you carry the guilt."

The poker trembled in Luc's hand. "You know a lot about this."

"I've been waiting to tell you the truth for three years." Ali set the manifest down on the bench. "That's why I'm here. That's why I sabotaged the weather station, the compass, the power. Not to trap anyone. To force a meeting."

Luc blinked. "You? The storm—the avalanche—"

"The avalanche was natural. I'm not a monster." Ali raised his hands, palms open. "But the station readings that should have warned us of the danger—I suppressed those. I needed this group trapped in one place long enough to finish the job."

"What job?"

Ali smiled, and there was something tired in it. "Marie-Claire Belmont didn't die, Luc. She faked it. The body that was never found was a staged decoy—she'd been laundering money through Gaspard's expeditions for years, and her 'death' was her exit strategy. Gaspard knew. He helped her vanish. He was paid to."

Luc's mind raced. "Gaspard was her partner?"

"Her accountant. And when Gaspard's insurance fraud started falling apart, he contacted her again. His dying word wasn't a confession—it was a warning." Ali's voice dropped. "Belmont was coming back to tie up loose ends. And, four nights ago, she arrived. She's in this chalet right now. She killed Gaspard to keep him silent, stabbed Pierre to draw suspicion away, and she's been pretending to be someone else the entire time."

Luc stared at the name on the manifest. Dark hair. A nervous laugh. The way one woman in the group had gone pale when Luc mentioned Annapurna in passing—but had covered it fast.

"Camille," Luc breathed.

Ali shook his head. "No."

And then, behind them, a voice spoke from the doorway.

"Hello, Luc."

Luc turned. Karine stood in the threshold, the flickering candlelight carving shadows from her face. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders. In her hand, she held the missing kitchen knife, blade stained dark and gleaming.

She tilted her head, and the nervous laugh he'd heard a dozen times over the past three days transformed into something colder.

"You've been so busy chasing ghosts," she said softly. "But you never looked closely at the one who stayed."