Chapter 5 - Blizzard on the North ShoreThe snowstorm hit Highway 61 with the fury of an arctic predator.
Whiteout conditions reduced visibility to zero, the blinding swirl of snowflakes catching in the headlights of Detective Monroe’s unmarked SUV as we pushed north past Grand Marais. The road was a sheet of black ice, winding precariously along the jagged, freezing cliffs of Lake Superior.
In the back seat, I checked my reflection in the frosted window. The frightened, isolated woman Kenneth Ross had married six years ago was gone. In her place was a survivor who had looked into the abyss and decided to drag the devil back into the light.
"We're three miles out," Monroe said over the low hum of the police radio, her eyes glued to the road. "Local sheriff's deputies have blocked the access road from the north, but the main gate is private property. If he sees our lights, he'll know we're coming."
"Turn your headlights off," I instructed quietly.
Monroe glanced back in the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow. "Are you out of your mind? We'll slide right off the cliff."
"Use the night-vision scope on the dash," I said, leaning forward between the front seats. "I know every foot of this coastline. There’s an old logging trail a quarter-mile before the main gate that cuts through the pine ridge directly behind the boathouse. We can drive right up to the back of the lodge without tripping the motion sensors."
Monroe hesitated for a second, then nodded to the driver. "Take the ridge trail. Move slow, lights out."
The SUV lurched off the main highway, its heavy tires crunching through deep drifts of fresh snow as we climbed the steep, wooded incline behind the property.
Through the green, grainy glow of the night-vision screen, the Campbell family lake house loomed out of the swirling white blizzard like a fortress of dark timber and glass. A single warm light burned in the second-floor study—the exact room where my father used to balance the ledgers of his company before Kenneth took over.
"He's still there," I whispered, unbuckling my seatbelt.
"Stay in the vehicle, Victoria," Monroe ordered, gripping her Sig Sauer P320 as she opened her door against the howling wind. "My tactical team is moving in through the kitchen entrance. Let us do our jobs."
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"He won't open the door for cops," I said, opening my door before she could stop me. The sub-zero wind hit me like a wall of ice. "He'll barricade himself in the panic room and burn the hard drives. But he will open it for his wife."
Before Monroe could grab my arm, I slammed my door and slipped into the blinding snowstorm, heading directly toward the side entrance of the lodge.
