Page 69 of Only the Hunter

She closes her eyes.

I climb back up, snow sliding under my boots, and when I reach her, I don’t stop moving—just take her arm and turn her away from the edge.

“They left her here,” Evie says. Voice flat. Factual. “They thought no one would find her until spring.”

“Probably put her coat on so that if she was found, it would seem she left on her own accord. Maybe they hoped animals would take care of the body and her clothes would be all that was found.”

“She cooperated. She testified. And they threw her away.”

I don’t correct her. Because that’s exactly what happened.

We stand there for a long moment, wind moving through the trees, the facility visible above us through the branches. A women’s shelter. The kind of place that takes people in without asking too many questions, keeps thin records, and answers to almost no one. Ironic doesn’t begin to cover it.

Finally, Evie straightens. “We need to go back.”

“Evie—”

“We need to go back,” she repeats, voice hardening. “And we need to make them answer for this.”

I study her face—pale, yes, but not broken. The furthest thing from broken. Determined. Furious.

“All right.” There’s nothing else to say.

This isn’t the end she wanted, but it’s likely a scenario she envisioned.

We climb back toward the facility in silence. The tracks we followed are still there, shallow depressions leading away from the building and ending at the ravine.

Evidence.

But evidence only matters if someone with power decides to look.

And so far, the only people looking are us.

“We’re not confronting them,” I say, before we’re back in view of the building.

Evie stops. “Excuse me?”

“Whoever’s inside that building may have had nothing to do with this. Or they may have everything to do with it. We don’t know which, and walking in there and announcing what we found puts you in a room with people who might have killed a woman to keep her quiet.” I keep my voice level, but I need her to hear this. “We call it in from a distance. Local police and anyone else with actual jurisdiction. We don’t become the next body in that ravine.”

She’s quiet for a moment, jaw tight, and I can see her weighing it—the prosecutor in her wanting answers now, against the part of her that knows I’m right.

“Fine,” she says finally. “But I’m calling this in myself. I want it documented that a federal prosecutor identified the body and reported it through proper channels. I’m not letting this get buried in some Swiss jurisdictional gap.”

“Agreed.”

We put distance between ourselves and the facility, making the call from the station, then waiting nearly an hour in the cold for local police to make the climb.

The woman from reception is waiting near the entrance when we return, accompanied by Swiss officers. She sees our faces and goes very still.

Evie stops three feet from her. “Lina Morozova is in the ravine below the tree line. She’s been there at least a day. Maybe longer.”

The woman’s composure fractures. Just slightly. “I don’t⁠—”

“You do,” Evie cuts in. “You knew she was here. You knew what happened to her. And you let us walk out of this building without saying a word.”

The woman’s mouth opens. Closes.

“This is—this is not—” The woman’s accent thickens, her English failing under pressure. “You do not understand the situation⁠—”