The blizzard, a relentless white curtain, had finally parted just enough to allow the arrival of Detective Harding. His patrol car, a dark silhouette against the snow-laden pines, looked less like a vehicle of justice and more like a lost toy, half-buried in a drift near the lodge’s winding driveway. He emerged, a sturdy man in a thick, practical coat, his face etched with the strain of navigating the treacherous mountain roads.

Shaking off snow, Harding stepped into the lodge, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere from anxious speculation to formal apprehension. His gaze swept over the assembled guests, a quick, assessing glance that seemed to catalog each person’s unease. He carried himself with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to taking control, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue.

“Detective Harding, local constabulary,” he announced, his voice a gravelly rumble that cut through the hushed murmurs. He wasted no time, moving directly to the grand fireplace, establishing it as his temporary command center. “I understand Mr. Blackwood is missing. I'll need a full account from everyone. We'll start with the person who last saw him.”