Chapter 15 #2
“We’re looking for Lina Morozova,” Evie replies. “She was transferred here under NGO coordination.”
The woman doesn’t blink. No visible surprise, no flicker of recognition.
“That name is not familiar,” she says.
I’m not sure if I believe her. Regardless, denials are data.
Evie presses. Shows the photo. Gives dates. Mentions the expedited transfer.
Something flickers. Not recognition—I’d bet money on it. Calculation.
The woman’s gaze shifts, briefly, to the hall behind her.
“You cannot be here without authorization,” she says. “If there is concern, it must go through proper channels.”
“Which channels?” Evie asks.
The woman’s mouth tightens, little lines appearing above and below her lips. “Swiss counsel. Or the originating authority.”
Same script. Different altitude.
Evie thanks her.
We turn to leave.
That’s when I catch movement at the end of the corridor—a figure passing behind frosted glass. With a backward glance at us.
“Was she injured?” I ask.
The woman stiffens. “Excusez-moi?”
“The transfer,” I continue evenly and slowly. “Was she injured when she arrived?”
Evie looks at me sharply.
The woman stares—at me, but I can’t say I’m reading any emotion.
Silence stretches.
Finally, the woman says, “All residents here are under care.”
Not were. Are.
And she doesn’t meet my eyes when she says it.
Evie clocks it too. I see it in the way her shoulders square.
“We’re leaving,” Evie says, polite but firm. “Thank you for your time.”
Outside, the cold feels like a correction, forcing us into our bundles once again as we walk.
Evie exhales hard once we’re clear of the building. “She recognized Lina’s name.”
“She reacted,” I say, agreeing.
“She didn’t deny she was here,” Evie adds. “She denied familiarity.”
Different things.
I scan the grounds. There’s a service road that disappears around the ridge. A utility shed. A secondary structure lower down the slope—older, less maintained.
“Another part of the facility?” Evie asks, following my gaze. “A residence?”
“Storage,” I say. “Or overflow.”
Evie swallows. “If Lina was here… If something happened to her—”
“Let’s walk the perimeter.”
We weren’t escorted out. There’s no harm in looking.
We follow the tree line first, boots breaking through the crust where snow has drifted unevenly. The facility sits tucked into the hillside, deliberate in its positioning—visible from the station above, invisible from the valley below.
That’s when I see them.
Tracks.
Not fresh—filled in by last night’s snowfall, but still visible as shallow depressions. Two sets. One deeper, heavier. One lighter, uneven.
I stop.
Evie stops beside me, breath fogging. “What?”
I crouch, brushing away loose powder. The lighter track shows scuff marks. Dragging.
“Someone came this way,” I say. “Recently. Within the last day or two.”
Evie’s voice drops. “How can you tell?”
“Snow overnight was light. These are shallow but defined.” I stand, following the line with my eyes. “They lead away from the facility.”
Away. Not toward.
If they returned…they took a different track.
Evie follows my gaze. The tracks disappear into the trees, angling downslope toward the ridge.
“Let’s follow them,” she says.
I glance back at the facility. No one is visible at the windows. But there’s a camera at the entrance. Could be one in these trees. Or in the eaves of a building.
“Stay close,” I say.
The descent is steeper than it looks from above. The trees thicken, branches heavy with snow, the light dimming as we drop below the ridge line. The tracks are harder to follow here—broken by roots and rock outcrops—but they’re still identifiable.
Evie doesn’t speak.
The exercise could be pointless.
But it might not be.
We both focus on our foot placement, sidestepping the shallow depressions we’re following.
The forest opens abruptly onto a narrow ravine, steep-sided and choked with deadfall. The tracks end at the edge.
To the side, I spot a broken branch. A likely return path.
But why stop here?
Evie creeps forward, and I stop her with a touch of her coat. “Wait.”
I move forward alone, scanning the slope. Snow has filled the bottom unevenly, deeper where it drifted, shallower where wind scoured it away.
That’s where I see her.
Not hidden. Not buried.
Just left.
Lina Morozova lies twenty feet down, partially covered by snow, her body angled wrong—limbs too loose, face turned toward the sky. She’s wearing the same clothes from the photo Evie showed me days ago. No gloves. The winter coat from photos on but unbuttoned.
She didn’t leave on her own volition.
She was discarded.
I hear Evie’s breath catch behind me.
I don’t turn. “Stay there.”
“Gabe—”
“Stay there.”
I ease down the slope, boots finding purchase on exposed rock. The snow here is undisturbed except for the tracks above.
She didn’t walk down here. She was thrown. Or dropped.
Lina’s skin is pale, almost translucent. No visible trauma. No blood.
Which means the damage was done before she ended up here.
I crouch beside her, checking for signs of life I already know aren’t there. Her hands are curled loosely at her sides. No defensive wounds. No ligature marks.