The engine gives a final, metallic shiver and surrenders to the cold. Silence rushes into the cabin of the rental SUV, thicker than the white-out conditions swallowing the windshield. Claire grips the steering wheel, her knuckles ghost-white in the failing light. Wyoming was supposed to be a straight shot, a simple drive to a wedding she isn't sure she wants to attend, but the pass has other plans. Move, you piece of junk, she thinks, twisting the key again. Only a pathetic click answers her.
Twilight bleeds into a bruised purple over the ridge. Her breath begins to bloom in front of her face, a steady, rhythmic ghost. She reaches for her phone, but the screen is a mockery of dead bars and zero signal. Marcus’s last voicemail is still trapped in the device's memory, a demand for her to arrive early and play the part of the perfect fiancée. Now, the only thing waiting for her is the frost creeping across the glass and the terrifying realization that the road has vanished beneath a foot of fresh powder.
A flicker of movement catches the corner of her eye, a shadow sturdier than the swirling snow. It’s a man, hulking and draped in heavy canvas, moving with a predator’s ease against the wind. He doesn't wave or shout. He simply approaches, his frame blotting out what little light remains. A heavy set of boots crunches through the snowdrift, stopping exactly at her driver-side door.
