Hide Me (A Katie Winter FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 3)

PROLOGUE Jon Farrow stopped at the branch in the path and turned to his wife. He was breathing fast, his legs aching. Despite the freezing temperatures, sweat was trickling down his back. The great outdoors? You could keep it, he thought. This snowshoeing was a lot more effort than he'd expected. The brochure and video had made it look fun and easy. But, surrounded by snow-packed trees, the trail was narrow, and he had to concentrate to avoid the deep ruts. The snowshoes kept him from sinking, but his thighs burned as he plodded forward. "That way leads us back to the chalets," he pointed meaningfully down the hill. "And that way leads us over the ridge," his wife argued, raising a gloved hand and pointing in the opposite direction. Lydia’s blond hair, as icy pale as the snow, framed her face under the knit cap, and the weak sunshine sparkled off the diamonds in her earrings. "We've only been going for half an hour," she argued, removing her glove, consulting her Fitbit. "I've only burned two hundred and thirty-three calories so far. Let's get it up to a round four hundred at least." He sighed, annoyed. "I'm tired,” he said. “And I have a call with a supplier at eleven a.m." Business was business, regardless of being on vacation or not. Money had to be made. As if she hadn't heard him, she continued, "That lobster and Wagyu dinner last night was a heavy meal. And we flattened nearly a bottle of Moet each. We need to work it off." Playfully, she poked him in the gut before replacing her glove. With a frustrated sigh, Jon turned to follow her. He could be on vacation in Cancun now, watching the sea from beside the pool and drinking iced margaritas. Would have been, if their neighbors hadn’t vacationed on a luxury ranch, and given her this wild idea about a winter getaway. He turned to follow, his legs aching as he stumbled through the snow. The path they'd been following was a lot narrower now. It had been forged across the hilltop; at the ridge line it was little more than a foot wide. He slid a little as he tried to step off the path, dipping his foot into the snow. He swore. The path, and the ridge, led to that sharp slope he'd been skirting. They'd been doing a lot of that; avoiding steep drops, trying not to look into the valleys below. "Maybe we should turn around now." "It's fine!" she called back to him. "It isn't!" But she was already out of reach, her footsteps crunching and slipping away from him. The path narrowed further as it neared the edge of the ridge. "Hey! Hang on!" This wasn't just torturous. It was dangerous, too. The slope to the left looked sharp and rugged. "We just need to keep going a little bit further," she called. "This is stupid! We're not snowshoeing. We're mountain climbing!" She didn't answer. Jon fumed, watching her large, flat footprints move steadily away from him. Glancing one last time down at the slope, he noted it was a long way down. And he didn't even know how to get back to the chalets. He swore under his breath. It was too late. He took a tentative step forwards, onto the ridge. And then, the worst happened. The snow crumbled away from under him as he fell. Yelping in fright, he scrambled for something to grab onto, but there was nothing. He landed on the snowy incline, and began to slide. He tried to reach for a sapling, jutting out of the snow, but its stem whipped out of his grasp. Gasping, Jon slid to a stop at the bottom of the ridge. The snow settled over him, showering him. He blinked, but he couldn't see anything beyond the powdery white. "Lydia!" he shouted, but all he could hear was the wailing wind. A moment later, his wife's face appeared at the top of the ridge, framed by her white earmuffs. "Jon! Are you okay?" She didn't sound anxious. More amused. He could have broken something. Probably had. That would teach her, if he'd suffered a real injury thanks to her stupid ideas. Jon moved his arms and legs. To his disappointment, all were in working order. His gloved hand knocked against something. A snowshoe. His shoe must have come off in the fall. But to Jon's confusion, he saw both his shoes were still attached. He tried to pull the spare shoe clear, vaguely wondering why it felt so heavy. And then, Jon cried out as he saw the snowshoe was attached to a foot. His heart dropped. Someone else must have fallen down this slope. And not been as lucky as him. Suddenly, this remote outdoors didn't just feel cold and inhospitable. It felt actively dangerous. Jon was shaking all over now, from the stress of the fall and from this horrific discovery. The body felt icy cold. Whatever had happened, he feared this man was beyond help. He reached out, and with trembling fingers, brushed snow from the face of the corpse. The face was covered in cuts and slices and the head was at an unnatural angle, but it was the victim's neck that caught Jon's horrified attention. The man's throat had been torn open. Blood was frozen across the ruptured skin. Jon didn't think it could get any worse. But as he stared at the man's pale, ruined face, it did. This was one of their fellow vacationers. Just a few hours ago, they'd greeted each other over the breakfast buffet. He'd shared a glance of commiseration with the guy, sensing that both of them were at this overpriced resort because of their wives. "Lydia!" he shouted, again and again, his shouts drowned out by the wind. Jon began scrambling up the slope, shaking violently, and chilled with a fear that pierced even deeper than the snowy cold. “Lydia!”