David shakes his head at Henry. ‘You fool,’ he says, raising his voice. ‘It would be murder in cold blood. We don’t know that he killed anyone. Look at him, cowering in his chair. There are seven of us, and only one of him. Do you really think you can kill him and get away with it? You want to be judge, jury, and executioner all at once?’ He can’t help it; the outrage has taken over, and comes through loud and clear.

Henry grudgingly settles back into his chair, his face hidden in shadow.

Sunday, 4:59 AM

Henry’s eyes flutter. He’s having a dream, a very unpleasant dream, that he is paralysed, that he can’t move, can’t act. He’s had this dream before – it’s symbolic of course, but it has never seemed so real. He’s held fast inside this nightmare. He can’t move his arms, or legs, not even his fingers or toes. He cannot move his tongue, which feels thick in his mouth. The only thing that is alive is his brain, his mind.

He realizes now that something is terribly wrong. He’d been sleeping, but this isn’t a dream. He tries to speak, but he can’t open his mouth, can’t form any words. It’s difficult to swallow. He thinks his eyes are open, but he can’t move his eyelids, and all is darkness. He can’t see anything – it’s as if a black film has fallen over his eyes, like that moment before you pass out. He knows he’s dying but he can’t tell anyone. He wants to flail and thrash to get their attention, but he is unable to. He knows where he is, even though he can no longer see. His sense of smell is still working, and he recognizes the scent of the logs burning in the fireplace; it reminds him of Christmases as a boy. He’s still in the lobby of Mitchell’s Inn, and the murderer has got him, too.

Chapter Thirty-one

Sunday, 6:30 AM

OUTSIDE THE HOTEL, wild things scurry and howl in the forest. The wind has dropped to a whimper. The sky is just beginning to lighten in the east, but inside, it is still dark, and quiet as the grave. Suddenly the chandelier overhead flickers and turns on, flooding the lobby with light. The remaining guests stir and look up in surprise. There are sounds of whirring and clicking as various parts of the hotel come back to life. The power is back on.

David, who hasn’t closed his eyes all night, glances first at Gwen, who appears to be asleep, her dark lashes a smudge against her pale face. She’s breathing peacefully, for the moment at least. Lauren is curled beside her. He shifts his eyes next to Beverly. She’s looking at him, blinking in the sudden brightness.

‘The electricity’s back,’ she says with feeling. ‘Thank God.’

At the sound of her voice, Gwen stirs, opens her eyes.

Lauren straightens up suddenly on the sofa. ‘Hallelujah,’ she says.

Matthew and Ian shift beneath their blankets; David doesn’t know if they were ever really asleep, but they’re wide awake now. James is slumped in his chair; his eyes are open, and David can’t tell if he’s slept at all.

Now Beverly gives a startled cry, and they all quickly turn her way. She’s staring at Henry.

‘Henry!’ Beverly cries. Her face is aghast, and she shakes his arm.

But there’s no mistaking that Henry is dead. He’s perfectly still in his chair, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his mouth open. In the light of the chandelier his face has a hideous pallor.

‘Henry!’ Beverly shrieks again, shaking him harder, panicking.

David rises swiftly and goes over to Henry, but there’s nothing to be done. Beverly is now sobbing hysterically. David looks up and meets Gwen’s eyes, and sees pure fear.

James slowly gets up and makes his stumbling way to the reception desk. David watches as James dials the number, his hands shaking, and realizes he’s holding his breath. To his profound relief, the phone appears to be working. At last.

James speaks into the phone, his voice breaking, ‘We need help.’

Sunday, 6:45 AM

Sergeant Margaret Sorensen, fortyish, stocky, blonde hair going grey, always an early riser, is enjoying her Sunday morning coffee at home in her favourite, least flattering flannel pyjamas when she gets a call from one of the officers at the station.

‘Ma’am, we’ve got a situation out at Mitchell’s Inn.’ Officer Lachlan sounds tense, which is unusual. He’s generally a laid-back sort, especially good with community events.

‘What kind of situation?’ she asks, putting her coffee cup down.

‘We just had a phone call from the owner there. James Harwood. He said at least three people have been murdered, maybe more.’

‘Is this a prank?’ she asks in disbelief.

‘I don’t think so, ma’am.’

She can tell from his voice that he doesn’t believe the call was anything but genuine. Good God, she thinks, shocked.

‘We need to get out there, ma’am.’ He’s breathing quickly, shallowly down the line.

‘Who’ve you got there?’

‘Perez and Wilcox. We’ll get the snowmobiles ready. No other way out there at this point.’

‘I’d better let the chief know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Good thing she lives so close to the station; it’s just around the corner.

Sunday, 7:35 AM

Sergeant Sorensen pushes the snowmobile hard over the ice-covered snow up the long, winding drive to Mitchell’s Inn. She has gunned it as fast as she can all the way from town.

A triple homicide. Things like this are rare up here. They don’t even have a detective at the station. She will have to do until New York State Police can send someone. Officer Lachlan had briefed her more fully when she arrived at the station, but the facts are sketchy. Three guests and the owner’s son are dead, and another guest is missing. She is shocked. She doesn’t know what they might be walking into. She’s familiar with the hotel, and with the family. Young Bradley – dead. She can hardly believe it. Her adrenaline is pumping fiercely as they approach the final curve in the long drive.

She cuts the engine outside the hotel on the brittle, glittering lawn. She reaches for her gun and gestures to the other officers parking their snowmobiles to do the same. They approach the front entrance cautiously, their heavy boots sliding on the ice. It’s so cold she can see her breath.

Sorensen notices a smear of blood on the ice near the front porch, and silently points it out. She creeps up the side of the porch steps and looks in the window. Finally, she pulls open the front door, her weapon ready. It opens easily. She steps inside the lobby and her eyes automatically turn towards the group around the fireplace. She sees pale faces peering out from blankets, staring back at her. She thinks, I will always remember this moment.

She hears the three officers coming in behind her. She takes in everything with her quick eyes. The people sitting around the fire look haggard and dishevelled, as if they haven’t slept. As if they’ve survived some kind of siege. She recognizes James, blindsided by the loss of his only son. She feels a stab of pity for him. She counts eight survivors sitting around the fire. No, make that seven. On closer inspection, one of the chairs is holding a corpse.

She approaches the small gathering, holstering her weapon. ‘I’m Sergeant Sorensen, and these are’ – she indicates each with a nod of her head – ‘Officers Lachlan, Perez, and Wilcox. We’re here now, and we’re going to help you.’ She tries to sound authoritative and reassuring at the same time. Sorensen steps forward to look more closely at the dead man. She can’t tell from looking at him whether he was murdered or died of natural causes.

She takes in the pallid faces looking up at her and wishes fervently that the medical examiner and the forensics team were here with her. She has no idea how long it will be until the roads are passable. She’s on her own here.

‘For now, I’m afraid everybody has to stay put,’ she tells them. ‘There’s no way to get you all safely into town. We’re going to take a look around, then I will have questions for all of you. When the roads are clear, you will be taken into town to the station to give official statements. In the meantime, I need all of you to help me as much as you can.’

She gets a few weary nods in response. ‘Before I look around, I need someone to put me in the picture here. Just a quick overview for now.’ Her eyes light on a man in his late thirties with an intelligent look about him. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks in a friendly way.