Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The sound of a zipper, sharp and loud in the silence, pulled me from a dreamless sleep.
I cracked one eye open. The room was dim, lit only by the gray predawn light filtering through the heavy curtains. Marco sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his thermal layers.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, noticing me stir. “It’s early.”
I sat up, the duvet falling away. The air in the suite was cool; the heating having cycled down hours ago. “What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.” He stood, stretching. His silhouette was long and lean against the window. “Chopper leaves in thirty minutes.”
My stomach tightened, the anxiety from last night rushing back. I watched him move around the room, all energized. He grabbed his ski pants from the chair, the fabric rustling.
“You’re really going.”
He paused, one leg in his pants. “We talked about this, Tess. It’s one run. Maybe two. I’ll be back for lunch.”
“The weather?”
“Clear skies. Conditions are prime.” He zipped his pants and walked over to the bed, sitting beside me. He smelled of toothpaste and the indefinable scent of excitement. “Hey. Look at me.”
I met his gaze. His eyes were bright, vibrating with excitement.
“I am going to be fine,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m safer on that mountain than I am driving on the freeway. Statistically speaking.”
“Statistics don’t account for gravity,” I muttered, pulling my hand away to rub my face. “Or avalanches.”
“Or yetis,” he added, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t forget the yetis. They’re the real danger. Terrible tippers, too.”
I couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped me. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot.” He leaned in and kissed me quickly, hard. “Now, go back to sleep. Dream of stock options. I’ll see you at noon.”
He stood up, grabbed his helmet and gloves from the table, and headed for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob, looking back.
“Love you, Tess.”
“Love you too,” I said, my voice thick with sleep and worry. “Be careful.”
“Always.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone.
I tried to return to slumber, sinking into the heat he’d vacated, but my thoughts were already in motion. I gazed at the ceiling, counting the designs in the plaster, hearing the far-off drone of the hotel stirring to life.
By seven-thirty, I gave up. I threw off the covers and padded to the window.
Pulling back the curtain, I looked out at the mountain.
The peaks were jagged teeth against a pale blue sky, the snow blindingly white in the morning sun.
Somewhere up there, a helicopter was churning the air, carrying my husband to the edge of the world.
I ordered coffee and set up my IBM ThinkPad laptop on the desk near the window.
If I couldn’t sleep, I would work. The code for the Phase Two sensor integration was still buggy, a mess of nested loops that had been giving the engineers headaches for weeks.
I opened the file, the lines of C++ a balm to my anxiety.
This was my world.
But today, the code wouldn’t stick. My eyes kept drifting to the clock in the corner of the screen.
Nine o’clock. He was probably on his first run.
Ten o’clock. Maybe a second run. He’d be exhilarated, adrenaline pumping.
Eleven o’clock. He should be heading back soon.
I willed my fingers to move, to engage with the data structures, but they felt awkward. The quiet in the room thickened, pressing down. Each creak of the floorboards, each distant door slam made me startle.
Noon.
I stood up and paced the length of the suite. The coffee in the pot had gone cold. I poured a cup anyway, drinking it black, grimacing at the taste.
“He said noon,” I said aloud to the empty room. “Maybe one.”
I sat back down. I checked the news. Nothing.
Twelve-thirty.
The phone sat on the desk, a black monolith. I picked it up, then put it down. I didn’t want to be the nagging wife calling the ski patrol because her husband was thirty minutes late. He was a grown man. He was with professionals.
But the dread in my gut was a living thing now, coiling tight.
One o’clock.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed the room phone and dialed the front desk.
“Concierge, this is Stephen.”
“Hi, this is Theresa Carideo in 402. My husband went out with Aspen Heli-Ski this morning. Do you know if they’re back yet?”
There was a pause, the sound of typing. “The group with Derek and Lars? Let me check the log... They departed at seven-fifteen. No return logged yet, Mrs. Carideo.”
“Is that... normal?”
“Depending on conditions, sometimes they do an extra run if the snow is good,” Stephen said, his voice practiced and soothing. “Or they might have stopped for lunch at the base. I wouldn’t worry.”
“Right. Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up, the receiver slippery in my hand. Lunch. They stopped for lunch. Marco had said he would be back for lunch.
I paced the room again. The suite’s luxury suddenly felt like a prison.
Two o’clock.
I couldn’t stay in the room. I needed to see people. I needed noise.
I grabbed my coat and headed down to the lobby.
The Ritz was buzzing with afternoon activity—skiers returning from the lifts, guests checking in, the clink of glasses from the bar.
I found a seat near the massive stone fireplace in the center of the lobby, a spot with a clear view of the main entrance.
I sat there, hands clasped in my lap, watching the revolving door spin.
Face after face. Strangers. Laughing, tired, sunburned. None of them him.
“Theresa?”
I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked up to see Arthur Vance standing over me. He was wearing a thick wool sweater that looked itchy, holding a leather briefcase.
“Arthur,” I breathed, willing my pulse to slow. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“Flight canceled,” he said, his mouth thinning into a grim line. “De-icing equipment failure at the airport. I’m stuck until tomorrow.” He looked at me closely, his eyes narrow behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “You look... unwell.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, smoothing my skirt. “Just waiting for Marco. He went heli-skiing this morning.”
“And he’s not back yet?” Arthur checked his watch, a gold Rolex that seemed too big for his wrist. “It’s past two.”
“He probably just lost track of time,” I said, defensiveness rising in my throat. “You know how he gets.”
“Yes,” Arthur murmured. He sat in the armchair opposite me, placing the briefcase on the floor. “I do know. Marco has never been one for strict schedules. Or limits.”
“He’s enjoying himself. He deserves it after last night.”
“Does he?” Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen, Theresa. About Tuesday. The Ashley meeting.”
“What about it?”
“I need to know that Marco is going to be... focused,” Arthur said slowly. “Ashley is a serious man. He doesn’t like surprises. He doesn’t like volatility. If Marco walks in there looking like he’s been partying for three days, or if he starts freestyling on the numbers...”
“Marco knows the stakes, Arthur.”
“Does he?” Arthur pressed. “Because frankly, his behavior worries me. This heli-skiing stunt? The day we fly back to prep for our biggest meeting ever? It’s reckless.
If something happens to him—even a broken leg—the optics are terrible.
Investors want stability. They want a CEO who is in the office, not risking his neck on a mountain. ”
I stared at him. The coldness of his assessment, the way he reduced my husband to a liability, made my skin crawl.
“Marco is the visionary,” I said icily. “Without him, there is no company. No investment. Ashley is investing in him, Arthur. In his passion. Not in your spreadsheets.”
Arthur sat back, a tick of annoyance crossing his face. “I just hope he’s ready. If Marco fucks it up when we’re this close—”
“He’ll be ready.”
Arthur stood up, picking up his briefcase. “We’ll see. I’m going to the business center. If he shows his face, let me know.”
He walked away without a backward glance. I watched him go with a sour taste in my mouth. Marco was right. Arthur was a despicable shark. A necessary one, perhaps, but a shark, nonetheless.
Three o’clock.
The lobby crowd thinned out. My panic, which had been a tight knot, was evolving into a trembling fear.
I went to the concierge again. “Anything?”
“I called the heli-ski office,” Stephen said, his brow furrowed. “Radio silence for the last couple of hours, but that’s common in the canyons.”
“Radio silence?” My voice cracked.
“It’s the mountains, Mrs. Carideo. Signals get blocked.”
I went back to my seat. I stared at the door. Every time it spun, I held my breath.
Three-thirty.
My phone was in my hand, my thumb hovering over Michael’s number. What would I even say? I think he’s dead.
I felt like I was going to vomit.
Three-forty-five.
The revolving door spun. A burst of cold air swept into the lobby, carrying the scent of snow and exhaust.
Voices. Loud, booming voices.
“Man, that third drop! Did you see the air I got?”
I opened my eyes.
Marco.
He was walking through the door, helmet tucked under his arm, goggles around his neck. His face was windburned, his hair a mess, his jacket covered in snow. He was laughing, slapping one of the guides on the back.
He was alive.
The relief hit me so hard my knees buckled. I had to grab the arm of the chair to keep from sliding to the floor. Tears pricked my eyes—hot, angry tears.
I stood up and walked toward him. My legs felt like lead.
He saw me. His face split into a wide, blinding grin.
“Tess!” He dropped his gear bag and opened his arms. “You wouldn’t believe it! It was incredible!”
I reached him and didn’t hug him. I shoved him. Hard.
His grin faltered. “Whoa. Hey. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” My voice was a hiss, trembling with rage. “Look at the time, Marco! Look at the goddamn time!”
He glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at me, confusion clouding his eyes. “It’s... almost four. Oh. Shit.”