Chapter 1
“Nerelle said missing. You said dead.”
Rosamonde’s lips parted.
Nothing came out.
Good.
Silence is often more useful before people build themselves somewhere to hide.
Beside me, Nerelle gripped the wet cuff of the overcoat with both hands. Red wine ran from the hem onto the carpet.
The little patch inside the sleeve was unmistakably handmade.
Blue thread.
Uneven corners.
A tiny white cross stitched into one edge.
“Did you sew that?” I asked.
Nerelle nodded.
“My brother tore the cuff last winter.”
“Name?”
“Elias Bexford.”
I knew the name only vaguely.
Seasonal driver.
Occasional lodge work.
No direct role in my organization.
Missing since June.
Rosamonde finally found her voice.
“I heard he died.”
“From whom?”
She looked toward the guests.
Wrong.
I followed her eyes.
One man near the fireplace had stopped drinking.
Arthur Kells.
Forty-seven.
Property broker.
Minor family associate.
And the claim ticket in his hand matched the number hanging from Elias’s coat.
I turned toward him.
“Arthur.”
His face changed.
“Boss.”
“Did you wear this coat here?”
He looked at Rosamonde.
There.
Again.
“Yes.”
Nerelle’s breath caught.
I stepped closer.
“Where did you get it?”
Arthur swallowed.
“It was given to me.”
“By whom?”
He hesitated long enough to answer before speaking.
“Merrick Fairfax.”
Rosamonde’s cousin.
Not present.
Supposedly delayed by snow.
Interesting.
Arthur rushed on.
“My own coat was ruined at the lower lodge. Merrick gave me that one this afternoon. Said it had been lying around for months.”
Nerelle whispered:
“Where did he get it?”
Arthur shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Rosamonde closed her eyes.
I looked at her.
“You do.”
“No.”
“Then why did you call Elias dead?”
She stared at the stained coat.
Then whispered:
“Because Merrick told me he was.”
The room became colder than the mountain outside.
May you like
Not because Rosamonde knew a dead man’s coat.
Because the man who gave it away had apparently been present when its owner disappeared.
