Read Chapter 35: Dead End

The tires spun once, twice, then caught, and the truck lurched forward through the curtain of white. Camille gripped the door handle, her knuckles pale as Antoine wrestled the wheel, eyes narrowed against the headlights' reflection off the falling snow.

"We should have waited," she said, though the words tasted hollow.

"We couldn't." Antoine downshifted, the engine growling as they climbed the first hill out of Saint-Rémi. "Bouchard will have that warrant by seven. We'll be in Hawkesbury by then."

If the roads stay open, she thought but did not say. The GPS showed their route as a thin blue line through a landscape that had become nothing but shifting whites and grays. Every few minutes, the wipers swept aside a fresh layer, revealing the dark skeletons of trees bending under the storm's weight.

They drove in silence for nearly an hour, the only sounds the hum of the heater and the rhythmic slap of wipers. Camille watched the roadside markers slide past, each one a small victory against the weather. Her locket rested warm against her collarbone, and she touched it absently, the metal familiar under her fingertips.

"We need to talk about what we'll do if she won't see us," Antoine said, not taking his eyes from the road.

"Émile said he would ask. That's all we have."

"That's nothing." His jaw tightened. "If she refuses, we have no witness, no evidence, and a warrant with my name on it by morning."

Camille pulled out her phone, scrolling to the notes she'd taken at the library. "Magalie Roy. Lived in Saint-Rémi until last fall. Worked at the pharmacy. Left suddenly—no forwarding address, no goodbyes to friends. Landlord found the apartment empty."

"Coincidence," Antoine muttered. "Everyone said she left because of the breakup with my father. But why disappear so completely?"

The truck hit a patch of ice and fishtailed slightly. Antoine corrected with practiced ease, but Camille's heart hammered against her ribs.

"Maybe she didn't want to be found," she said. "People in debt run. People who owe money run further."

Antoine glanced at her. "You think she owed someone?"

"I think we're about to find out."

---

The outskirts of Hawkesbury appeared like a miracle—a cluster of dim lights bleeding through the storm, promising warmth and answers. They found the address Émile had given them: a small hardware store with a faded sign reading BÉLANGER & FILS. The parking lot was empty, but a single light burned in the window above the shop.

Antoine killed the engine. In the sudden quiet, the wind howled around the truck's frame.

Camille checked her phone. No service. "We're committed now."

"Always were."

They crossed the lot, boots sinking into fresh powder. The door to the apartment above the shop opened before they knocked. A man stood in the doorway—thickset, gray-streaked beard, eyes that had seen hard winters. He held the door wide without a word.

Inside, the apartment was warm and close, smelling of coffee and woodsmoke. A woman sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug. She looked up as they entered, and Camille saw the resemblance immediately—the same sharp cheekbones, the same guarded eyes. Luc's sister. Not his former partner.

"You're the ones from Saint-Rémi," Magalie said. Her voice was flat, tired. "Émile said you'd come."

Antoine took off his hat, snow melting in his dark hair. "We need to talk about your brother."

Magalie's knuckles went white around the mug. "Luc is dead. He's been dead for seven months."

"That's not true." Camille moved closer, keeping her voice gentle. "You're his sister. You know he's alive. His snowmobile—you returned it to his property."

The woman's composure cracked. Her chin trembled, and she set the mug down before it could spill. "Who told you that?"

"The police found it," Antoine said. "They thought it was mine. They think I killed him."

A bark of bitter laughter escaped Magalie. "They never looked that hard, did they? It was easier to blame the outsider—" She stopped herself, glancing at Émile, who had moved to stand behind her chair.

"Magalie," he warned softly.

"They came all this way." She looked at Antoine with something like pity. "The snowmobile. Yes. Luc lent it to me when I left. Said I needed it more than he did, that he was going away and wouldn't need a vehicle where he was going."

"Where is he?" Camille asked, leaning forward. "Please. Antoine is about to be arrested for a murder that never happened."

Magalie's eyes filled with tears. "You have to understand. Luc has always had a problem. Gambling. Our father had it too. When Luc was young, it was harmless—poker nights, hockey pools. But it got worse. He borrowed from the wrong people. Paid some back, borrowed more. When he couldn't pay, they got violent. Broke his arm two years ago."

"Vigneault?" Antoine asked. "Was it Vigneault he owed?"

Magalie shook her head. "Worse. People from Montreal. Men with no faces." She wiped her eyes. "When the debt grew too large, Luc knew they'd come for him. So he disappeared. I helped him. I left town—made it look like I was running from a broken heart—so they'd have no reason to question my movements. And Luc went into hiding."

"Where?" Camille's voice was barely above a whisper.

Magalie looked at her for a long moment. Then she stood and crossed to a drawer, pulling out a folded piece of paper. She held it out to Camille, who unfolded it to reveal a hand-drawn map—three lakes, a logging road, a small X marked in pencil.

"He's been living in a hunting cabin up near the Manicouagan reservoir," Magalie said. "It belonged to our grandfather. No one knows about it. No phone, no road access except the logging trails, and they're not maintained in winter."

Antoine stared at the map. "That's eight hours north of here. Through the storm."

"If you leave now, you might make it by tomorrow night." Magalie's voice caught. "But you need to understand something else."

"What?"

She sat back down, suddenly looking every day of her age. "The men Luc owes—they think he's dead. That's the only reason they've stopped looking. If you bring him back... if they find out he's alive..." She trailed off.

"They'll come for him," Camille finished.

Magalie nodded. "And they'll come for anyone who helped him."

The wind rattled the windows, and the lights flickered once. Camille looked at Antoine. His face was set, determined, but she saw the calculation behind his eyes—the weight of what they were being asked to do.

"How do we get to him?" Antoine asked.

"The logging road starts about two hours from here, off Route 155. It's not plowed. You'll need snowshoes for the last few kilometers." Magalie's voice steadied. "But you can't both go. Someone needs to stay here and keep the phone lines open in case things go wrong."

Camille's hand found Antoine's. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure.

"We're not separating," she said. "Not again."

Magalie looked at their clasped hands, and something softened in her expression. "Then you'll need a better truck than that one," she said. "And you'll need to leave within the hour, or the storm will close the roads completely."

Émile rose without a word and disappeared down a hallway. He returned moments later holding a set of keys.

"My brother's truck," he said. "It has snow tires and chains. Take it."

Antoine started to protest, but Émile pressed the keys into his palm. "She's my wife," he said simply. "And her brother is family. Family helps family."

Camille looked at the map again. The X seemed impossibly far, a tiny mark in a vast white wilderness. Somewhere out there, Luc Roy was hiding from men who would kill him—and waiting to set Antoine free.

"What about the warrant?" she asked quietly.

Antoine tucked the map into his jacket. "By the time Bouchard's paperwork reaches Saint-Rémi, we'll be another two hundred kilometers gone." He met her eyes. "We're already fugitives. Might as well make it count."

Outside, the storm roared like something alive. Camille fastened her coat and followed Antoine toward the door, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on her shoulders.

Somewhere in the frozen north, a man waited for rescue. And the clock was ticking faster than the snow was falling.