The industrial kitchen sits tucked in the corner of the same wall. Stainless steel appliances, black granite countertops, and dark, expresso-glazed wooden cabinets. Clean and functional.
I fill a glass with tap water and down it in a few swallows, feeling the refreshing chill trace down my throat and into my stomach. Then I drink another.
The fridge and freezer have subscription ready-to-eat meals.
Dimitri’s work, again. He’s the self-appointed butler who keeps the house supplied even in my absence, rotating perishables on a schedule that ensures I never arrive to empty shelves. Bread, cold cuts, and cheese always stay stocked fresh, but I don’t have the energy to build a sandwich.
Instead, I grab a box at random from the fridge, pull the tab, and toss it in the microwave. As the machine hums, I rest against the counter, staring out the windows at nothing.
The storm’s only getting worse.
The wind screams. Every few minutes, a quiet thump echoes against the outside walls. It could be branches, debris, or entire limbs coming down under the weight of snow and ice.
No one could possibly get up this mountain.
Still, sadness seeps into my chest. I lost my chance at the locket. The only thing I have left of Mom, the only physical proof that she existed, that she loved me, that we were a family before Roman destroyed everything.
I should be grateful to be alive, that I made it to shelter, that the storm trapped me here instead of killing me on the road.
But all I can think about is Max.
He’s out there somewhere. Or, more likely, his body is out there, frozen solid in the blizzard. Did he stay where he first wiped out, or did he continue to drive?
It will likely take days for the snow to stop. Weeks for it to melt, unless it sticks around until spring. Who knows when someone will find the truck or his body.
Not that I care. That jackass can topple off a mountain and rot for eternity. Maybe his dick will even fall off from frostbite before he dies.
If he goes missing, though, so does my mother’s necklace.
I can’t stand the thought of that last piece of her sitting out in the snow for weeks or months on end.
I head down the hall off the main living area to the communications room. Barely larger than a closet, the walls hum and buzz with screens and equipment. Dimitri updates our tech every few years, so we always have the latest top-of-the-line electronics.
Currently, we have satellite uplinks, weather monitoring, and radio systems that can reach anywhere in the world. I power on the weather displays.
The storm system fills the screens. Massive, slow-moving clouds trail down from Canada and even farther north.
Just as I feared.
This is the kind of blizzard that settles in for days, dumping feet of snow and bringing damaging winds that make travel impossible even with the best equipment. I check the current conditions at my elevation. Eight degrees Fahrenheit, with the windchill somewhere around negative fifteen. Warmer than I’d suspected. Visibility under ten feet. Accumulation rate at three inches per hour.
The storm’s not expected to clear for at least a few days.
Which means I’m stuck here. And Max—or his body—is stuck wherever he is.
The rational part of my brain knows I benefit from this. Knows that the storm protects me and gives me time to recover and plan. On the rare chance he’s even alive, Max can’t reach me as long as the blizzard persists.
But the other part—the part that started screaming the moment I opened that duffel bag and found nothing—keeps insisting that I go and find him.
The idea’s insane.
If I just wait, the snow will stop and visibility will clear. Once Dimitri arrives, we can go out together. We might even be able to use drones to check for crashes.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
As I leave the communications room, the house feels smaller. With every inch of snow that piles against them, the walls close in.
I’m trapped by the weather and my own failure.
