The Hallstatt police station was a small, stone-faced building that looked more like a postcard perfect cottage than a hub of criminal investigation. Inside, the air smelled like floor wax and stale coffee. It was a sharp contrast to the festive, pine-scented chaos of the streets outside.
“Thirty-six hours,” Eden said, her hands slamming against the high wooden counter. “She’s been missing for thirty-six hours. We’ve checked other hotels, the ferries, and every bar from here to Obertraun. Sloane doesn’t just ‘go off the grid.’ Especially not in a foreign country during a blizzard.”
Officer Baumgartner, a man whose silver mustache seemed to carry the weight of every lost tourist, sighed as he adjusted his glasses. He looked down at the passport photo Eden had provided. Sloane smiled in f
