I ABANDONED MY WIFE FOR FOUR DAYS TO SPOIL MY MISTRESS—AND BY THE TIME I RETURNED, MY WIFE HAD NEARLY DIED ALONE IN THE SNOW

The rescue snowcat’s heavy rear doors slammed shut, cutting off the vision of Clara’s pale, blood-spattered face behind the frosted glass.

The vehicle’s tracks tore into the packed ice, accelerating down the mountain pass toward the highway where a medical helicopter waited at lower altitude. Within seconds, the red tail lights vanished into the swirling whiteout, leaving me standing in the sub-zero quiet with the Search and Rescue officer.

The officer looked at the evidence bag in his hand, then up at me. His expression was cold, heavy with a silent disdain that had grown clearer with every second he stood beside me.

“Mr. Black,” he said, his voice flat under the roar of the wind. “Your wife is being transported under critical trauma protocol. You won't be allowed in the air ambulance. You’ll have to take the ground convoy to Denver.”

“Give me the phone,” I demanded, my voice cracking as I reached for the plastic bag. “I’m her husband. That is my property as much as hers.”

The officer didn't hand it over immediately. He held the bag just out of my reach, his gloved fingers tightening around the heavy plastic.

“She just dragged herself six miles through a Category 4 blizzard with a shattered tibia,” the officer said, stepping closer until his ice-caked visor was inches from my face. “She survived two days in an unheated concrete box by burning old maintenance manuals and eating snow. And the very first thing she asked when we broke down that door was whether you came looking for her. When she realized you didn't even know she was gone... she stopped talking to us entirely.”

He thrust the sealed bag against my chest.

“Take it,” he spat. “It’s evidence in a state missing-persons investigation anyway. But if you have an ounce of humanity left in you, Ethan, you’ll honor that woman’s last request.”

He turned his back on me, climbing into his patrol vehicle and slamming the door.

I stood alone on the snow-covered ridge, clutching the cold plastic bag against my ribs. Inside, the cracked screen of Clara’s phone gleamed like dark obsidian under the flashing yellow beacon lights of the depot.

Don't let him see that one.

Her final words whispered through my mind, louder than the wind whipping through the pines. What could she have recorded in those final, freezing hours inside the concrete bunker? What truth had she spoken to the darkness when she believed she was going to die alone on this mountain?

Marcus walked up behind me, holding an open satellite phone. “Ethan, the hospital’s trauma unit in Denver is prepping Operating Room 4. Dr. Harrison is leading the orthopedic team. But the press... Ethan, the press is surrounding the hospital entryways. Bloomberg, CNN, local news—they’ve caught wind that you were in the Maldives while she was trapped.”

I didn't look at Marcus. I slid the sealed evidence bag deep inside my coat pocket, right against my chest.