Tori's boots crunched against the gravel as she and Javi approached the imposing iron gates of Erik Frost's mansion. The air was crisp, carrying a hint of pine and the distant murmur of city life from below. The estate sprawled across a swath of land that seemed to thumb its nose at the modest homes dotting the mountainside. As they were ushered through the gates, Tori couldn't help but notice the sleek black SUVs lined up like sentinels.
"Money buys silence in shiny packages," Tori muttered under her breath, her gaze lingering on the tinted windows that mirrored the overcast sky.
Javi gave a noncommittal grunt, his eyes scanning the perimeter with the instinctive caution of a seasoned agent. They ascended the stone steps flanked by meticulously trimmed hedges, each leaf seemingly in fear of stepping out of line. At the grand entrance, they were met not by the master of the house but by a barrier of suits—lawyers with their polished shoes and sharper-than-steel gazes.
"Agent Tori Spark, Agent Javier Mendez," one spoke up, extending a hand that felt as though it could just as easily sign a deal as it could choke the truth out of someone. "I'm Malcolm Hayes, Mr. Frost's attorney. This is my colleague, Allison Park."
Their names barely registered as Tori took in the sight of Erik Frost standing behind them. His ice-blue eyes were as cold and detached as the mountaintop he knew so well, his thin lips pressed into a hard line. Despite everything—the accusations, the lawyers, the mansion—Frost wore his maintenance worker's plainness like an ill-fitting coat that couldn't quite conceal the predator beneath. He had frost-bite scars across his cheeks.
"Mr. Frost has been advised not to speak directly to law enforcement without counsel present," Allison said curtly.
"Understood," Tori replied, her tone matching the lawyer’s for seriousness. She took note of Frost's subtle shift in posture.
He wore grease-stained clothing, and his hair back in a tangled mess, held by a single bandana, and his eyes were red-ringed, and he smelled of skunkweed. Her own gaze shifted past towards the open door behind them.
She paused briefly, ignoring the lawyers to take in the wood and stone structure. For a moment, she thought of the resort where they’d found Leo Faulkner, but this mansion was even more luxurious than that. There were no antlers or animal heads on display here, but the marble floors gleamed like crystal. The scene was interrupted, though, by a large hiking bag tossed haphazardly on a jacket discarded on the floor.
“Shall we?” the lawyer, Hayes said, glancing at them.
He then turned, his associate and client leading the way up the stairs.
Javi muttered under his breath, “Guess they were expecting us.”
Tori nodded, and followed their guides into the mansion’s foyer.
Hayes gestured toward an opulent sitting room where sunlight fought to penetrate the heavy drapes. Each step Tori and Javi took on the Persian rug seemed to echo against the walls, filled with expensive art that watched them pass with muted indifference.
"Please, have a seat," Hayes offered, indicating a pair of chairs that faced a Victorian couch which no doubt cost more than most people made in a year.
"Thank you," Javi said, his voice low and measured, as he and Tori took their designated spots.
"Let's get to the point," Tori said, clasping her hands together to still the tremor of anticipation. She could feel Frost's gaze upon her, challenging, daring her to unearth the truth he cloaked in silence and wealth.
Erik Frost's lips parted, a retort perched on the brink of utterance. "I—" His voice, however, found no audience as Mr. Hayes's hand raised with swift precision, silencing him.
"Mr. Frost, please," Hayes intoned, eyes sharp as flint. "Let us handle this."
Tori leaned forward, her gaze never wavering from the pale blue eyes that flickered with restrained anger. The air crackled between them, charged with an energy that spoke of unyielding wills on a collision course.
"Mr. Frost," she began, her words slicing through the room's tension like a scalpel, "your involvement in the sports expo has come under scrutiny. What can you tell us about your role there?"
"His role was purely organizational, nothing more," interjected Allison, the other lawyer, before Frost could form a response. Her tone suggested finality, but Tori's question hung, undeterred and demanding in the space between them.
Frost's jaw tensed visibly, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he fought the constraints of silence. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening—a caged animal amidst the trappings of civilization.
"Furthermore," Tori pressed on, unfazed by the lawyers' interference, "there have been rumors of comments you've made—derogatory ones, regarding women's place in the sport. Would you care to comment on that?"
"Rumors are just that," Hayes cut in smoothly, though the edge in his voice betrayed the strain of maintaining control over the narrative. "Unsubstantiated and unworthy of Mr. Frost's time."
Frost's nostrils flared, a silent snarl against the muzzle of legality his counsel provided. Every line of his body screamed defiance, yet the words remained trapped behind the barricade of his legal team's admonitions.
"Are they?" Tori challenged, her tone cool but loaded, a gun barrel pointed at the heart of deceit. The question lingered, a gauntlet thrown, daring Frost to step beyond the safety of his advocates' shadows.
Tori's gaze narrowed as she watched the glacial blue of Erik Frost's eyes flicker behind his lawyers' poised forms. The atmosphere in the ornate sitting room was thick with tension, each word from the legal team carefully measured to ice over any hint of the truth.
"Mr. Frost categorically denies these baseless allegations," Allison stated, her voice crisp like the snap of a frozen branch. "He has always conducted himself with professionalism and respect within the sporting community."
"Is that so?" She reached into her folder, her fingers brushing against the stark black ink on paper—a flyer rife with loathsome words masquerading as poetry.
"Perhaps Mr. Frost would care to explain the flyer then? The poetic insults that seem to align suspiciously well with the rumors?" she asked, her voice threading through the room with a deliberate cadence.
"Mr. Frost has no knowledge of any such flyer," Hayes responded, the armor of his suit seemingly impenetrable. But his eyes, a fraction too quick to glance at Frost, betrayed the flicker of doubt.
"Really?" A half-smirk danced on Tori's lips. She unfolded the paper with a flourish, the rustle echoing in the hushed chamber. Holding it before her like a taunt, she began to read, her tone laced with mocking reverence.
"‘Thy willowy form shall meet the storm, for snow and ice are man's true norm,'" she recited, her inflection dripping with derision. Each syllable was a calculated jab, designed to fracture the brittle facade.
Frost shifted, his jaw clenching tighter as the poem's barbs found their mark. His frostbite scars stretched taut over his skin, a map of old wounds that seemed to throb anew with each mocking intonation.
"Pure artistry, wouldn't you agree?" Tori continued, the words a weapon wielded with precision. "Seems someone took quite an effort to craft such... targeted sentiments."
The lawyers exchanged a look, their practiced ease showing the first hairline cracks. Frost's silence was deafening, the air around him electric with unspoken fury.
"Agent, this is hardly—" Hayes began, but Tori was relentless.
"‘Weakness veiled in vanity, a blight upon the purity of our fraternity,'" she went on, skewering the hollow grandeur of the insults with her scorn. This wasn't just about provoking a reaction; it was about peeling back layers, unveiling the venom beneath the veneer.
A bead of sweat traced its way down Frost's temple, a silent testament to the heat of anger under the cold exterior. His eyes, those ice-blue mirrors, reflected not the calm of a clear winter sky but the storm that raged just beneath the surface.
Javi clicked his tongue. “Not very good, is it?”
“No. Pretty awful,” Tori agreed.
“Enough!” Hayes said. He could tell his client was losing it.
But so could the agents. Tori pretended as if she hadn’t heard. “I mean… I’ve known kids in kindergarten who write better than this.”
“Really? I was thinking preschool,” Javi replied.
The silence shattered like thin ice under a heavy boot. Erik Frost's pale features flushed a deep crimson, his lips parting with a snarl that cut through the stillness of the sitting room, "That’s it!" His voice boomed, reverberating against the opulent trappings of the mansion. The facade of calm control crumbled as he stood, hands balled into fists at his sides. "Women have no place..." He spat the words with disdain, his chest heaving with each breath. "They think they can just prance into the sport, but it's a man's world. Always has been."
Tori watched him unravel, her expression unreadable, the document in her hand suddenly insignificant next to the outburst. She had struck the nerve she aimed for, exposing the raw, ugly core beneath the polished exterior.
Javi leaned back, his dark eyes never leaving Frost's contorted face. A corner of his mouth twitched upward, and with deceptive calmness, he asked, "You okay there, Frost? You seem a bit... heated."
The taunt was a flicker of flame to dry tinder, igniting an inferno in Frost's gaze. The tension coiled tighter, a tangible force pressing against the walls of the room. Frost's lawyers moved closer, their presence a barrier that seemed pitifully ineffective against the tempest of rage spilling from their client.
"Okay?" Frost's laugh was bitter, a harsh bark devoid of humor. "I built my life on these slopes while you people parade around—"
"Mr. Frost," the lawyer interjected, a clear note of warning in his voice, but Frost shoved him aside, his focus unyielding upon Tori and Javi.
"Easy, Erik," the female lawyer soothed, but the words were lost, drowned by the roar of Frost's indignation.
Tori waited for the echoes of Frost's anger to settle, her eyes never leaving his flushed face. She knew the next question could unravel him further, but it was a step she had to take.
"Mr. Frost," Tori began, her voice steady and clear, "your history with Hannah Dyer—can you tell us about that? She was pictured in that flyer…”
The name seemed to slice through the tension, leaving Frost momentarily off-balance. His ice-blue eyes flickered, a crack in his façade. "We went out—a few times," he admitted reluctantly, his voice grudging as if each word cost him.
"Did you now?" Tori prodded, gauging his reaction with clinical precision.
Frost's hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening. The admission hung in the air—a potential motive dressed in the guise of a past romance.
"And what about Serena Chang?" Tori continued, relentless. "What can you tell us about her?"
"Nothing!" The denial came quick and vehement, a whip-crack in the stillness of the room. "I don't know any Serena Chang."
"Is that so?" Tori pressed, her gaze unwavering. "Because she—"
"Look," Frost cut in, his tone laced with insistence, "I wouldn't harm anyone. You've got the wrong guy."
"Of course," Tori said, though her expression remained skeptical, her mind working behind the mask of her calm demeanor.
Tori's fingers grazed the edge of the flyer, its words printed in ominous, calligraphic strokes. She cleared her throat, each syllable she uttered resonated with a chilling clarity as she read aloud, "’Beneath the pristine white, vile truths are buried deep. But snowflakes shan't keep secrets that the mountain dares not keep.’"
The air in the sitting room seemed to solidify, as if the very temperature had dropped in response to the coldness of the verse. Frost's lawyers shifted uncomfortably, their stoic masks briefly slipping to reveal a flicker of concern.
"Poetic threats or just hyperbole, Mr. Frost?" Tori challenged, locking her gaze with his ice-blue eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only betrayal of his composure.
"Nothing but an artistic expression," one lawyer interjected quickly, waving a dismissive hand as if to dispel the words like smoke. "Mr. Frost has many detractors who envy his success. Even if my client had some hand in these, it would be Constitutionally protected Free Speech, as all artistic creations are."
"Artistic?" Tori arched an eyebrow. "As I’m sure you’re aware, Free Speech is only protected to the point of threats or inciting violence. Are we really going to pretend there’s nothing about these that would make a reasonable woman afraid for her life?"
The lawyer began to speak, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"Two nights ago, Mr. Frost," she pressed on, relentless. "Your whereabouts?"
Frost's lips parted, then closed, as if he weighed his answer against the gravity of silence. Finally, he nodded towards his legal team, who promptly unfolded a sheaf of papers.
"Mr. Frost was on a business trip," the other lawyer stated, proffering the documents like a shield. "Here is everything you need—flight details, hotel bookings, meetings for the trail mix company expansion. An undeniable alibi."
Tori took the papers, her eyes scanning the print while her mind raced. The timing was tight, almost too perfect. Could someone orchestrate such an elaborate cover, or was it the truth masquerading as deceit?
"Convenient," Javi murmured from beside her, his voice low and skeptical.
Tori's fingers paused mid-flip through the stack of papers, the crisp sound of their turning hanging in the air. She met the male lawyer's gaze, which was steely and unyielding, a testament to his professional resolve.
"I personally will testify to Mr. Frost's alibi," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "The evidence is incontrovertible."
His declaration sliced through Tori's skepticism like a blade. Every lead, every hunch that had pointed to Erik Frost now seemed to crumble under the meticulous construction of his alibi. The frustration knotted in her chest, heavy and stubborn, as she contemplated the walls closing in on their investigation.
"Isn't that convenient?" Tori's words were laced with cynicism, echoing Javi, her mind churning with the implications of this new hurdle.
"Convenience has nothing to do with it, Detective," the lawyer retorted, his tone cool and measured. "It's simply the truth."
Before Tori could formulate a rebuttal, the room was pierced by the sudden shrill of Javi's phone. He glanced at the screen, his brow furrowing with immediate concern. The ringtone sliced through the tension, creating a fissure of distraction. He stepped away from the group, pressing the phone to his ear, his posture stiffening as he listened.
"Another avalanche," he muttered after a moment, urgency undercutting his usually calm demeanor. His eyes locked with Tori's, conveying a silent message that screamed louder than any alarm.
"Where?" Tori asked sharply, already on her feet, senses heightened by the impending threat.
"North ridge," Javi replied, his voice taut. "Rescue teams are mobilizing. We have to go—now."
The lawyers exchanged glances, their composure rattled by the intrusion of real-time danger. Frost, however, remained seated, his expression unreadable behind the mask of legal protection his attorneys provided.
"Mr. Frost, we'll continue this later," Tori said, her words clipped with the urgency of the moment. Her investigator's instinct protested leaving unfinished business behind, but duty called her elsewhere—to the mountain, to potential victims buried beneath the snow.
With a final, piercing look at Frost, Tori followed Javi out of the sitting room, the documents clutched in her hand now secondary to the crisis at hand.