Chapter 1: The Man Who Watches You
The fire crackled, a deep, hungry sound that ate up the silence between bursts of laughter from the other end of the bar. Maree traced the rim of her whiskey glass, the peat-smoke aroma a pleasant anchor in the warm, pine-scented chaos of the lodge. Outside the vast windows, the mountains were dissolving into a blue-grey twilight, the slopes now empty but for a few lonely trails cut by last-minute skiers.
Her fingers itched for her notebook. A week away from the city, from the endless grind of deadlines and police scanners, and her brain still defaulted to observation mode. It was a curse.
The man two stools over was watching her. Not in the usual, tired way men in bars sometimes did, with a glazed hopefulness. This was different. Calculative. His eyes were the colour of the slate outside, and they didn’t flick away when she met them. He just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if confirming something to himself.
Maree took a sip, letting the whiskey burn a path down her throat. Challenge accepted.
She turned on her stool, facing him fully. “If you’re going to stare, you could at least buy me a drink first. It’s considered polite in most time zones.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. He was handsome in a way that seemed intentionally overlooked—brown hair needed a cut, stubble a day past purposeful, a simple black sweater that promised warmth, not fashion. He moved to the empty stool beside her with a quiet, efficient grace.
“I wasn’t staring,” he said. His voice was low, relaxed. “I was assessing.”
“Assessing. That sounds very official. Are you a critic? Because I have to warn you, my form on the intermediate slopes is aggressively mediocre.”
“Not a critic.” He signaled the bartender, pointing to Maree’s glass and holding up two fingers. “Todd.”
“Maree.”
“I know.”
The air between them stilled for a second. The fire popped. Maree felt her journalist’s instincts, usually dormant on vacation, snap to attention. “Okay. Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Probably a bit of both,” Todd said, accepting the two fresh whiskeys. He slid one to her. “You’re Maree Evans. You broke the Strand Pharmaceuticals story last fall. The one about the falsified trial data.”
So that was it. Not a stalker, just a reader. A fan, maybe. She relaxed a fraction. “Guilty. It’s why I’m here. My editor told me to go find a mountain and fall down it until I remembered how to sleep through the night.”
“And are you? Sleeping?”
“The falling down part is going great. The sleeping part, not so much.” She studied him. His hands were calm on his glass. No wedding ring. Strong, capable-looking hands, but with a fine scar across the knuckle of his right thumb. “So, you’re a healthcare policy enthusiast? Or did Strand screw you over personally?”
He chuckled, a dry, soft sound. “Neither. I work for the government. Let’s just say your reporting made some people’s lives very interesting for a while.”
“Which branch?”
“The branch that prefers its employees not to name the branch at a ski lodge bar.” He took a drink, his eyes scanning the room in a smooth, practiced arc before returning to her. It was quick, but she caught it. He wasn’t just relaxing. He was on the clock, even here.
“Wow. That’s either the lamest pickup line I’ve ever heard, or you’re actually telling the truth.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “So, what? CIA? FBI? DoD? NSA? Should I start speaking in acronyms to keep up?”
“Think of me as a facilitator. A problem-solver for unusual situations.”
“And what’s the unusual situation here? Me drowning my lactic acid in single malt?”
For the first time, his calm mask slipped, showing a glimpse of something harder, wearier. “Let’s call it a coincidence. For now. I’m on a… forced sabbatical. My boss thought the mountain air would do me good.”
“And is it?”
He looked out at the darkening peaks. “It’s quieter than my usual offices.”
A group of loud après-skiers tumbled through the main doors, bringing a blast of frigid air and shouting about black diamond runs. Todd’s body tensed minutely, his shoulders squaring, his gaze locking onto the group until they settled at a distant table, harmless. It was the reaction of someone trained to assess threats. Maree felt a cold trickle that had nothing to do with the draft.
“You know,” she said casually, swirling her whiskey, “for a guy on sabbatical, you seem pretty keyed up. Who are you expecting?”
“It’s habit,” he said, but the answer was too smooth, too ready.
“Right.” She decided to push. “So, problem-solver. What kind of problems? Lost diplomatic pouches? Cyber-attacks on national parks?” She paused, watching his face carefully. “Unsolved deaths on snowy mountains?”
His eyes locked onto hers. The room’s noise—the clinking glasses, the folk song now playing on the speaker, the roar of the fireplace—seemed to fade into a muffled haze. In that silence, his gaze was answer enough.
“Why are you really here, Todd?”
He didn’t look away. “I read your work. You have a talent for finding truths people want buried. You’re tenacious. And you’re here, now, at this specific lodge, during this specific storm.” He nodded toward the windows. The first fat flakes of the forecasted blizzard were beginning to spiral past the glass.
“So?”
“So, my problem might intersect with your talents. A mutual… coincidence.” He finished his drink. “I’m in room 217. If you get curious. If you stop believing in coincidences.”
He stood up, dropping cash on the bar. “Enjoy your vacation, Maree. Try to get some sleep.”
And then he was gone, weaving through the crowd toward the lobby elevator without a backward glance. Maree sat, frozen, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling cloying. A government spook. A forced sabbatical. An ‘unusual situation.’
Her phone buzzed on the bar. A notification from a news app: LOCAL SKIER FOUND DECEASED NEAR ASPEN GROVE TRAIL. FOUL PLAY NOT SUSPECTED.
She looked at the message. She looked at the empty seat beside her. She looked out at the swirling snow, now falling thick and fast, beginning to blanket the world in a deep, silent white.
Coincidence. Right.
Her fingers closed around her phone. She pulled up a fresh note. At the top, she typed: Todd. Gov’t. Problem-solver. Room 217.
Below it, she added: Skier death. Foul play ‘not suspected’.
She underlined the last two words twice. The fire popped, a shower of sparks rushing up the chimney as the storm outside began to truly howl.
The fire popped, a shower of sparks rushing up the chimney as the storm outside began to truly howl.
Sleep was impossible. The wind screamed against the window of her room, a high, relentless whistle that drilled into her temples. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Todd’s assessing gaze and the bland, official phrasing of the news alert. Foul play not suspected. They always said that, until someone proved it was.
Her muscles ached from a day of tense, inefficient skiing. The idea of the lodge’s outdoor heated jacuzzi, steamy and isolated in the whirling snow, presented itself. It was the only thing that might loosen the knot between her shoulders. And maybe, just maybe, it would quiet her mind.
She pulled on her black one-piece and a thick robe, hauling it tight as she padded down the deserted, wood-paneled hallway. The door to the pool area hissed shut behind her, cutting the wind’s scream to a muffled drone. The air was thick with chlorine and damp heat. The main pool was dark, a slab of black glass, but soft blue light glowed from the recessed jacuzzi alcove, open to the night.
Steam rose in dense clouds, mingling with the blizzard. It was a surreal pocket of tropics in the alpine storm. And she wasn’t alone.
Todd was there, submerged to his chest in the churning water. His head was tilted back against the tile, eyes closed. On the decking beside him, an ice bucket held two bottles of champagne. One was empty, lying on its side in the meltwater. The other was three-quarters full, beaded with condensation. A single flute sat beside it, half-full.
He didn’t open his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep either, Maree?”
Her grip tightened on her robe. He hadn’t even looked. “The storm’s a little loud for that. I see your sabbatical includes a celebration.” She nodded at the bottles.
One eye opened, sliding toward her. “Stocking up. The storm’s going to lock us in for at least two days. Supply lines get funny.” His voice was relaxed, smoother than it had been in the bar. The champagne, probably. “Join me. The water’s hot. The view is apocalyptic. It’s something.”
It was a terrible idea. It was the only interesting idea she’d had all night. She dropped her robe onto a lounger and stepped down into the searing water, hissing at the initial shock. She settled on the opposite bench, putting a good eight feet of bubbling water between them. The jets pummeled her lower back.
“So,” she said, the word almost lost in the roar of the water and the wind. “Problem-solver. What do you do when you’re not solving problems in jacuzzis during blizzards?”
He took a slow sip from his glass, then reached for the bottle, refilling it with meticulous care. “I wait. Most of the job is waiting. For information. For assets. For the right moment.” He looked at her directly then, the steam wreathing his sharp features. “Or for the right person to ask the right question.”
“Is that what I am? The right person?”
“You might be. You’re certainly asking questions.” He swirled the champagne. “The skier who died. Alexei Petrov. Did you look him up?”
Her pulse kicked. She hadn’t said the name. “I saw the alert.”
“He was a telecommunications analyst. Freelance. Worked for a few boring firms you’ve never heard of.” Todd took another drink. “He was also an intermediate skier, at best. The trail they found him on? It’s expert-only. Ungroomed. A bowl of sheer ice and tree wells they call ‘The Devourer.’ Locals don’t touch it after a fresh powder. He wouldn’t have gone near it.”
The hot water suddenly felt suffocating. “So he was pushed. Or led.”
“Or he was meeting someone. And that someone didn’t want a conversation.” Todd’s gaze was unnervingly steady. “Petrov had been digging into something. Old, buried infrastructure. Something that shouldn’t have been there. He reached out to my… department. He was supposed to hand over a drive two nights ago. He never showed.”
Maree’s mind raced, connecting dots she couldn’t quite see. “And you’re here to find the drive.”
“I’m here to find out what happened. The drive is secondary.” He leaned forward suddenly, the water sloshing. The casual pretense was gone, stripped away by the alcohol and the isolation. “Listen. You’re a resourceful woman. You notice things. People talk to journalists in a way they never talk to people like me. I can’t move without tripping a dozen wires. You can.”
“You want me to ask around for you.”
“I want you to keep your eyes open. If you see something that doesn’t fit, you tell me. Room 217.” He sank back. “Consider it a civic duty. With better scenery.”
“And what do I get out of it? Besides the thrilling company of a government spook with a champagne habit?”
A genuine, tired smile cracked his face. “The truth. Isn’t that what you’re always after? Or has the mountain air made you forget?”
The wind ripped across the open alcove, driving a blast of snow that melted instantly in the steam. It felt like a curtain had been pulled back, a moment of terrifying clarity. He was using her. He’d probably chosen this lodge, this week, because of her. The coincidence was a fabrication.
She stood up, the water sluicing off her. The cold air bit into her skin. “I’m here to sleep, Todd. Not to be your unpaid intern.”
Not to be your unpaid intern.”
He watched her, unruffled. The storm howled around them, a fitting soundtrack to the standoff. “If it’s sleep you’re after, first you need to relax. Sit here.” His voice was low, a command wrapped in an offer. He poured champagne into the second, unused flute, the liquid fizzing violently. He placed it on the edge beside him and pointed to a specific spot in the jacuzzi, directly across from where he sat, where a cluster of jets churned the water into a frenzied boil. “The jets on that side are broken. Too aggressive. But they’re perfect for working out a knot. Try it.”
It was a test. She knew it. A bizarre, intimate little test. Her muscles screamed in agreement with his suggestion, and her curiosity, that damned professional deformation, overruled her caution. She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. A deliberate move on her part, too. She wanted to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t.
She moved through the chest-deep water and sat where he indicated, sinking down until her shoulders were submerged.
The effect was instant and electric.
The powerful, concentrated stream of bubbles hit her directly, intimately, the stimulation so acute and unexpected a sharp gasp escaped her lips before she could clamp them shut. Her eyes flew open, meeting his across the steam. He hadn’t moved. His expression was unchanged, but his gaze held a new, sharp focus. He’d known. Of course he’d known.
Heat that had nothing to do with the water flooded her face. She couldn’t move. To shift away would be an admission of the effect, a vulnerability. To stay was to accept this bizarre, charged assist. She took a frantic gulp of champagne, the bubbles in her mouth a pale imitation of the ones below the waterline.
“See?” he said, his voice almost lost in the roar of the jets and the wind. “Tension requires a counter-pressure.”
“You’re full of shit,” she managed, her voice tighter than she wanted.
“Frequently.” He finally looked away, up at the swirling snow. “Petrov’s room was cleaned before my people could get a look. Professionally. Not a print, not a hair. The lodge manager said it was standard procedure after a guest’s… departure. He was nervous. His hands shook.”
Maree forced her mind to track his words, to anchor herself in the mystery, not the sensation. It was a desperate, partially successful distraction. “So the manager is involved. Or scared.”
“Or paid.” Todd looked back at her. “I can’t approach him again without spooking everything. You could. You’re the concerned journalist, right? Maybe working on a piece about resort safety after a tragedy. It’s a good cover. It’s even true.”
The jets pulsed against her, a relentless, rhythmic invasion. She felt simultaneously exposed and hyper-aware, every nerve alive. His proposal wasn’t a request anymore; it was a transaction laid bare in this steamy, isolated cave. Her access for his information. Her body for her focus.
“And if I say no?” she asked, draining the champagne, needing the alcohol’s burn.
“Then you finish your vacation. You try to sleep. You probably won’t.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The movement brought him closer. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the damp gleam on his collarbone. “But you’re already in the water, Maree. You’re already curious. I can see it. It’s the same look you get when you’re chasing a source who doesn’t want to be found.”
He was right. The story was here, tangled up with this man and a dead skier and a missing drive. The adrenaline coursing through her now was familiar. It was the same as chasing a lead, but darker, more visceral.
She set the empty glass down with a decisive click on the wet tile. The intense stimulation between her legs was just another data point, a physical manifestation of the danger and the lure. She didn’t move from the jets.
“What does the drive look like?”
A slow smile, the first real one, spread across his face. It transformed him, making him look younger and infinitely more dangerous. “That’s the right question.” He reached for the bottle, refilling both their glasses. “It’s a generic black metal thumb drive. No branding. It would have a small, almost invisible scratch near the USB port. Like a thin crescent moon. Petrov called it his ‘little moon rock.’”
He handed her the fresh glass. Their fingers touched again. This time, she felt the callouses on his.
“Talk to the manager tomorrow,” Todd said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming part of the steam and the dark. “His name is Derrick. See what scares him more: a dead guest, or your questions.”
Maree nodded, the motion feeling jerky. The combination of heat, champagne, and the unrelenting physical sensation was blurring her edges. “And what will you be doing?”
“Waiting.” His slate-colored eyes held hers. “And watching. Room 217. Remember.”
He stood then, water streaming off him. He grabbed his robe, not bothering to dry off, and walked toward the interior door without a backward glance. He left her there, in the churning, steaming water, with the empty bottle and the full glass and a storm of sensations and suspicions she couldn’t begin to untangle.
The door hissed shut behind him.
She sat perfectly still for a full minute, just feeling the violent pulse of the water, her mind and body at war. Finally, with a shuddering breath that wasn’t entirely about the cold air hitting her shoulders, she stood and climbed out. She wrapped herself in the thick robe, her skin screaming at the temperature change.
She didn’t look back at the jacuzzi. She walked quickly down the silent hall, the phrase little moon rock beating in time with her heart. As she passed room 217, she saw a sliver of light under the door. He was in there. Waiting. And watching.
In her own room, she locked the door and leaned against it. Sleep was a distant country. She was here, in the thick of it, the story already pulling her under. She just had to decide how deep she was willing to dive.