Part 5
The SUV surged forward, tires churning through the fresh powder.
Through the tinted side window, Julian's frozen face was bathed in the red glow of the dashboard lights, his eyes locked onto the two women standing shoulder to shoulder in the storm.
The vehicle accelerated down the winding driveway, gathering speed as the slope steepened. At the apex of the cliffside hairpin turn, the front tires lost traction on the sheer ice.
The heavy frame breached the snowbank and smashed through the weathered wooden guardrail with a sharp, splintering crack.
For one suspended second, the red taillights hung over the black void of the gorge. Then the vehicle plunged nose-first into the darkness, tumbling end over end through the jagged rock face before slamming into the frozen, boulder-choked river hundreds of feet below.
A muffled boom echoed up through the blizzard, followed by the dull hiss of steam rising against the freezing air.
Claire and Helen stood at the brink of the drive, watching the white mist swallow the wreckage until there was nothing left to see except the fresh snow already filling the tire tracks.
Helen turned to Claire, a fierce, feral smile curling her lips. "Well. That solves the housing market."
"We have thirty minutes before the storm clears enough for visibility," Claire said, turning back toward the chalet. "Let's finish it."
Inside the master suite, the sisters moved between the two open suitcases on the bed. They didn't pack separate bags. Instead, they merged their wardrobes into a single, lethal collection—ivory cashmere sweaters folded neatly beside plum silks, tailored wool trousers layered beneath calfskin boots and a sweeping black leather trench coat.
Claire wiped away the residue of the day, slicking her espresso hair back into loose, windblown waves that matched Helen's. She slipped Julian's platinum signet ring into her pocket alongside the keys to his offshore holdings and Manhattan real estate deeds.
They locked the chalet behind them, leaving the cedar fires to burn down to ash.
Down in the sheltered secondary garage, Helen's unlisted rental sedan waited. They loaded the single trunk, stepped inside, and backed out onto the mountain pass, their tires cutting the only tracks across the untouched snow.
Hours later, the blinding squall gave way to the pale, slate-gray dawn of the Massachusetts turnpike. The blizzard remained trapped behind the mountains, replaced by miles of wet, salt-slicked asphalt stretching south toward New York.
