Read Chapter 8: The Guide's Tale

The supply closet smelled of paraffin and wet wool. Luc had gone through it twice already—once for the radio parts that weren't there, once for the satellite phone that wasn't there either—but he went back a third time because the floorboards creaked differently near the back wall.

He knelt on the cold stone, running his fingers along the gap between the wall and the floor. The creak was there again, a soft hollow complaint that suggested space beneath. He pulled at a loose plank and it came up easily, too easily, revealing a shallow cavity cut into the joists.

Inside lay three things: a battered leather journal, a box of 9mm rounds, and a folded topographical map with a route marked in red ink from the chalet to a point on the east ridge—the patrol hut, circled twice.

Luc took the journal. The leather was cracked, the pages swollen from moisture. The first entry was dated six months before the previous guide's disappearance.

*December 14. The Barrows contract is signed. Eight clients for the full season. Marcus Klein is the one to watch. He asks too many questions about the rescue protocols, the weak spots in the terrain. Took photos of the helipad coordinates. I've had difficult clients before. This one feels different.*

Luc's thumb paused on the page. Marcus Klein. He checked the guest manifest in his memory—the one pinned to the chalet's noticeboard. No Klein. The clients were Bauer, Chen, Delacroix, van der Meer, Rossi, Thorne, Ashworth, Viktor Brandt. The name didn't match anyone.

He kept reading.

*December 22. Klein is not who he claims. His passport is Swiss but his accent slips when he's tired—Slavic, maybe. He mentioned Ljubljana by mistake during a safety briefing. When I pressed, he said he'd had a school trip there. I checked his files. No school trip. No records before 2019 at all.*

Luc's jaw tightened. A fabricated identity. The unsigned note Camille had given him—*a client who isn't who they claim to be*—suddenly had a name attached to it. Or at least, a name the previous guide had attached.

He flipped forward. Entries grew shorter, more hurried.

*Jan 3. Valentine's story checks out. She was a guide here in the nineties. But her relationship with the owners is closer than she admits. I caught her going through the office files after midnight.*

Luc frowned. Valentine? There was no Valentine in the group. Unless—

He turned back to the earlier pages. The guide's own name appeared in an equipment log.

*François Marchand, Lead Guide, Whiteout Chalet. Season 3.*

François. Not Valentine. But François could be a man or a woman. The entry suggested François had verified Valentine's background—a former guide—which meant Valentine was someone else in François's orbit, not the chalet's clients. Or perhaps Valentine was a nickname.

The next entry caught his breath.

*Jan 7. It's in the sauna. I found it by accident when the lock jammed. I don't know who put it there or what it means, but I'm not touching it until I know more. B. Keller was a client two years ago. He died in a crevasse accident on my watch. The blood hasn't dried.*

The bloodstains. The broken lock. The sauna floor had been clean when Luc had seen it—but the stains were there, dark rust in the grout, unmistakable. B. Keller. The monogrammed handkerchief near the generator had carried the initials B.K.

Luc had assumed the handkerchief belonged to someone in the group. But B. Keller was dead. A client who died under François Marchand's watch. And someone had planted Keller's handkerchief near a deliberately snapped ski pole to implicate Viktor.

Or someone *was* Viktor's alias.

He read faster.

*Jan 12. Viktor Brandt arrived this morning. He's not on the original manifest. He replaced a client who canceled at the last minute—a man named Sergei Novak. When I asked for his credentials, he produced paperwork with a wax seal. Unusual. The agency doesn't use wax seals.*

*Jan 15. I followed Viktor to the weather station yesterday. He didn't see me. He spent thirty minutes at the override panel. Today, the 16:47 system glitched. Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidence.*

Luc's chest went cold. The 16:47 weather station override. He had told Camille about it—her eyes had brightened with recognition, which had bothered him. And now François had noted Viktor at the station days before the glitch.

But the next entry made him set the journal down.

*Jan 18. Marcus Klein never existed. I dug deeper. The man I know as Klein is Viktor Brandt. Same build, same eye color, same habit of drumming his fingers when nervous. Viktor is not a businessman from Munich. He is a contractor from somewhere dark, and he is here to make sure no one survives the season.*

Luc's mind raced. Viktor Brandt—boastful, aggressive, quick to accuse others—had replaced Sergei Novak at the last minute. The previous guide had believed Viktor was Klein under a new name, a man with no records before 2019, a man who asked too many questions about rescue protocols.

But the handkerchief. The broken ski pole. If Viktor was the saboteur, why would someone plant evidence pointing at him? Unless it was designed to be discovered and dismissed as a frame—making Viktor look innocent by making him look framed.

Double bluff.

The journal's final entry was dated the day before François Marchand vanished.

*Jan 19. I've hidden the route to the patrol hut where I can find it. If I don't come back, someone will need these coordinates. There's more to this place than anyone knows. The locked room isn't storage. It's a record of what happened to B. Keller. I tried to open it once. Henri caught me. He said, "Some doors are closed for a reason." I should have pushed harder.*

Luc closed the journal. His hands were steady but his heart was hammering.

The map. The route to the patrol hut, marked in red. François Marchand had left this behind deliberately—a trail for whoever came next.

From the locked closet door came a scratching sound. Luc froze. The light from the hallway split the crack beneath the door, and he saw a shadow shift across it. Someone was standing outside, listening.

He slipped the journal into his jacket, replaced the plank, and stood—calm, casual—as the door swung open.

Henri stood in the frame, his face unreadable. "Supply check takes a long time."

Luc gestured at the empty shelves. "The stores are thinner than I expected. Someone's been lax with inventory."

Henri's eyes flicked to the square of floor Luc had just vacated. For a moment, something passed across his face—recognition, or suspicion, or memory.

"The patrol hut," Luc said. "It's still stocked, isn't it?"

Henri's lips tightened. "If you're still planning that little hike in the morning—"

"I'm not asking permission."

The silence stretched between them. Henri's hand rested on the door frame, knuckles white.

"You're looking for François," Henri said quietly. "He's not coming back."

"I know." Luc touched his jacket, where the journal pressed against his ribs. "But I found his last words anyway."