"Crime At Cabin No 9"

 

Into the Snow

The fog hung thick over the city like a whispered warning. From the eleventh-floor window of his apartment, Zane Faulkner stood in silence, holding a steaming cup of black coffee. He wasn’t admiring the view. He rarely did. His gaze was fixed on a single snowflake trailing down the glass — slow, drifting, quiet.

"Why are you staring at snow like it insulted your mother?" Eli's voice echoed from behind, followed by the unmistakable sound of cereal crunching.

Zane didn’t turn. “Because,” he said softly, “this one’s falling the wrong way.”

Eli blinked. “The wrong way? It’s snow, not a drone.”

Zane turned at last, smiling faintly. “Exactly. So if something behaves out of pattern, even something as harmless as snow—”

“Let me guess. It means something.” Eli rolled his eyes and sank into the couch.

Before Zane could reply, his phone buzzed. The screen showed a private number. He answered without hesitation.

“Faulkner,” came a tense voice. “We have a situation. Northern mountains. Winter resort. Cabin Nine.”

Zane’s smile faded. “Dead?”

“Yes. Found this morning. Door locked from the inside. No footprints. Fresh snow.”

Zane paused. “Send the coordinates. We leave now.”

Eli choked on his cereal. “We? As in... me?”

    .

Three hours later, a black SUV wound through icy mountain roads. Snow flurried down in ghostly silence. Zane drove with one hand, his eyes scanning the treeline. Eli sat beside him, layered in scarves, gloves, and an expression of doom.

“This is how we die,” Eli muttered. “Slipping off a cliff because someone in Cabin Nine couldn’t stay alive.”

Zane chuckled. “You underestimate snow. It’s nature’s perfect alibi.”

Before Eli could reply, Zane slowed the car. A faded wooden sign read:

WELCOME TO SILVER PINES RESORT

Just beyond the sign, the resort lay scattered across the hillside — a collection of log cabins tucked among pine trees, smoke curling from their chimneys. Except one.

Cabin No. 9 stood eerily still.

  

Inside Cabin 9, the air was thick with the scent of cedarwood and something else—metallic and cold. A man’s body lay near the fireplace, slumped in an armchair. Eyes open. Frozen still. A glass of untouched wine beside him.

Detective Greer, the local officer, stood stiffly in the corner. “Name’s Roland Heath. Forty-five. Retired professor. Checked in two days ago. Found this morning by housekeeping. Door was locked from the inside. No forced entry. No footprints outside. Nothing stolen.”

Zane knelt beside the body. His fingers hovered over the wine glass, then the fireplace. Still warm. “Someone was here recently.”

“But how?” Greer asked. “There’s only one door. And the window locks weren’t touched.”

Eli glanced around nervously. “Maybe it was a ghost. A cold, academic ghost.”

Zane said nothing. He stepped to the window, exhaled, and watched the fog swirl on the glass.

 

Outside, the resort’s main lounge buzzed with uneasy whispers. Guests sat near the hearth, sipping cocoa, their faces pale with unease.

Lyra arrived in a swirl of cold air and dark curls, removing her gloves with purposeful calm.

“Late,” Zane noted.

“Blame the snow,” she said, then added with a smile, “or miss me already?”

“Both.”

Eli groaned. “Oh, wonderful. Now there are two of you.”

Zane gestured toward a logbook. “Guest list. Let’s see who had access.”

Lyra skimmed the names. “Four cabins occupied apart from No. 9. All checked in before the professor.”

Zane’s eyes narrowed at one entry:
CABIN 6 — Oliver & Marla Vance.
The same names had shown up in another case last year — a financial fraud investigation that mysteriously vanished.

He said nothing.

Yet.

  

Eli stared at the snow outside Cabin 9. “Okay, so the door was locked. No one inside. No one outside. Then what, did the killer melt into the air?”

“Not melt,” Zane murmured, crouching down. “Float.”

Eli blinked. “Are you saying the killer... flew?”

“No. But they didn’t walk.”

From a distance, a faint line curved in the snow — almost invisible. Zane traced it with his eyes toward the pine trees. Then it vanished.

“Someone used a sled or board,” Zane muttered. “Something smooth.”

Lyra looked intrigued. “But the snow is fresh. That track should’ve been covered.”

Zane stood. “It was.”

He looked up at the trees. “But not by nature.”

Back inside the main lodge, Zane found a display wall showing old photographs of guests. One photo caught his attention: a group of five from a winter retreat three years ago.

And there he was — Roland Heath. Smiling.

Beside him, a younger man. Same build. Same jawline.

Eli squinted. “That’s... Oliver Vance?”

“Maybe. But there’s no name tag.”

Zane stepped closer. The photo had a faint scratch on its lower edge, like someone tried to scrape something off.

Name. Date. Identity?

Covered.

Eli whispered, “You think this goes back years?”

Zane’s silence was answer enough.

   

Later that evening, the snow thickened. The cabins lit up one by one. Only Cabin 9 remained dark — and watched.

Zane stepped into the trees. The earlier track had vanished, but he saw a disturbed patch behind a thick pine. He knelt and pulled back the snow.

A single snowshoe. New.

“Someone ditched this,” Lyra said from behind him. She handed him a small flashlight. “We might not find the other one.”

“We don’t need to.”

Eli peered nervously. “Why?”

“Because,” Zane said, “this one isn’t missing. It’s been planted.”

Lyra’s brows furrowed. “To mislead?”

“Exactly.”

In Roland’s coat pocket, Zane found a folded note:

“It’s all unravelling. They know. If anything happens to me — it’s because of them.”

No names. No sender. Just the faint scent of lavender cologne on the edge of the paper.

Zane handed it to Lyra.

She sniffed it. “This isn’t his scent. Roland wore pinewood. I noticed it on his scarf.”

“Then who wears lavender?” Eli asked.

Zane said nothing, but his gaze shifted toward the lodge.

And lingered.

 

Night deepened.

Zane returned to Cabin 9 one last time before dinner. Near the fireplace, behind a small log basket, he found something odd.

A house key. Encased in ice.

“Frozen?” Lyra asked.

“No. Deliberately frozen.” Zane examined the ice block. Inside, the key looked ordinary. Cabin No. 4.

Eli frowned. “Why hide a key in ice?”

“Because it’s evidence,” Zane said. “And the killer didn’t want it found. At least, not until the thaw.”

Eli looked nervous. “And if Cabin 4 is occupied?”

Zane smiled. “Then someone’s in trouble.”

  

Dinner at the lodge was unusually quiet. The remaining guests sat at separate tables. Eyes watched. Voices whispered.

Zane entered last, his coat dusted with snow.

He looked around slowly. At each face.

The Vances — perfectly composed. Cabin 4’s guest — a woman named Celia — pale, clutching her wine.

Lyra leaned in. “What are you thinking?”

Zane sipped his coffee. “They’re all waiting for me to accuse someone.”

“And will you?”

He smiled. “Not yet.”

Eli muttered, “Why do I feel like we’re in the middle of a murder mystery novel?”

Zane didn’t answer.

But he was already writing the ending in his mind.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓫𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓛𝓲𝓮𝓼

The wind howled that night like a warning no one could decipher. Inside the lodge, silence held its breath.

Zane Faulkner stood in the corridor between the dining hall and the manager’s office, his eyes scanning the soft reflections in the windowpane. He didn’t say a word. Not to Eli, who stood beside him shifting nervously. Not to Lyra, who watched him with quiet curiosity.

“Are we going to just stand here looking mysterious,” Eli whispered, “or are we going to find the murderer before breakfast?”

Zane turned, slowly. “Not ‘before breakfast,’ Eli. Precisely at it.”

Eli frowned. “Why wait?”

Zane gave a ghost of a smile. “Because tonight, someone will make a mistake.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓒𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓴

At midnight, a sound cracked through the frozen night — soft, but unmistakable. A door.

Zane was already up.

He didn’t knock. He simply opened the front lodge door and stepped into the snow, following the disturbance. Lyra caught up moments later, wrapping her coat tighter. “Where?”

He pointed toward Cabin 4.

The door was open — just a crack — and the lights inside were dimmed. Footsteps.

Zane entered quietly. No one in the front room. A creak from the bedroom. Lyra stayed at the door, alert.

Zane stepped in.

Celia, the solo guest of Cabin 4, stood with her back to him. Her hands trembled as she reached into the closet. When she turned, she gasped.

“You—! You shouldn’t—”

“I know,” Zane said gently. “But you were looking for something hidden.”

Celia dropped a black scarf on the bed. Her eyes brimmed with confusion — and fear.

“I didn’t kill him,” she whispered.

“I never said you did,” Zane replied.

But he didn’t leave.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓻

By morning, the sky was a pale gray bruise. Snow fell again, softly this time, like it was watching.

Zane sat in the lodge's reading corner. A fire crackled. Eli yawned beside him, holding a half-empty mug of cocoa.

“So you think she’s the one?”

“No,” Zane said. “But she’s connected. She knew Roland. She’s hiding something, but not murder.”

Lyra joined them, her eyes sharp. “You think someone planted the iced key in her cabin?”

“Yes. And it was someone clever enough to know we’d find it eventually. The timing was deliberate.”

Eli rubbed his eyes. “Which brings us back to the Vances.”

Zane nodded slowly. “Exactly. They have something to hide, and they’ve done it before.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓢𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓯

Zane returned to Cabin 9.

He examined the chair Roland died in, carefully tracing its arms. Then, under the cushion, he pulled out a scrap of fabric.

It was a torn piece of scarf. Lavender-scented.

Lyra raised a brow. “Celia?”

Zane shook his head. “No. Look closer.”

She took the fabric, felt it between her fingers. “This is silk. Celia wore wool.”

“Exactly.”

Eli perked up. “Wait. Who wore silk scarves?”

Lyra’s eyes widened. “Marla Vance.”

Zane stood. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓣𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮

Zane spread a hand-drawn chart across the coffee table in the lodge.

"Let’s build the timeline," he said. "Roland checked in three days ago. Killed on the second night."

Lyra pointed. "The Vances checked in the day before Roland."

"Correct. And the snowstorm hit the night he died. Meaning no one left or entered."

Eli leaned forward. "So the killer was already here."

Zane nodded. "And they had a plan. A plan that started long before this trip."

He tapped the photo from three years ago. “This isn’t just about now. This is a revenge plot.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵

The lodge phone rang once.

Zane picked up.

“Hello?”

The line crackled. Then a voice whispered, “You should stop.”

Click.

He stared at the receiver.

Eli gulped. “Creepy much?”

Lyra looked troubled. “That was a threat.”

Zane looked amused. “That was desperation.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓑𝓸𝔁

That evening, Zane knocked on the door to the manager’s office.

He didn’t wait for permission. “I need to see the lost-and-found.”

The manager blinked. “It’s just a drawer of gloves and scarves—”

“Open it.”

Inside, buried under hats, Zane found a small lockbox with initials carved faintly on the top: R.H.

Roland Heath.

Inside: old letters, a photograph, and a torn document.

Lyra read it aloud. “It’s a research funding rejection. From Vance Pharmaceuticals.”

Eli’s jaw dropped. “So they had a history.”

Zane pocketed the letters. “And motive.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮

That night, Zane sat alone by the lodge fireplace. The guests had gone quiet. The storm outside thickened again.

Lyra approached, sitting beside him.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

Zane gave her a look. “Closer than they want me to be.”

She smiled slightly. “You keep things to yourself.”

He leaned toward her. “Would you prefer I told you everything?”

Her cheeks reddened. “You just like teasing me.”

“I do.”

There was a silence.

Then Eli interrupted it by tripping over the rug and nearly dropping a tray of hot chocolate.

Zane chuckled. “Timing, as always, perfect.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

The next morning, Zane gathered everyone in the main lounge.

The guests — tense. The Vances — quiet. Celia — anxious. The manager — confused.

Eli stood near the door, ready to bolt.

Zane stepped forward.

“Last night, I received a call. A warning. And that told me everything I needed to know.”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

“Roland Heath was not here for vacation. He came to confront someone. Someone who destroyed his career.”

He looked at Oliver. Then at Marla.

“And when he did... you killed him.”

Gasps.

But Zane held up a hand.

“I’m not accusing. Yet.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓤𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰

Zane turned to the group.

“Let’s answer the questions.”

“Why no footprints?”
“Because the killer used snowshoes and wiped their tracks behind them — in a pre-determined pattern.”

“Why was the door locked?”
“Because it was locked from inside after the murder — by using a string mechanism, pulled from the outside and snapped clean.”

“What about the wine?”
“Untouched. Because Roland never got to drink it. He died before he could. Blunt force trauma — not poisoning.”

“The frozen key?”
“Planted. Meant to implicate Cabin 4. A red herring.”

“And the photo?”
“Scratched deliberately. To erase the past.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓕𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓑𝓻𝓸𝓴𝓮

Oliver Vance stood suddenly.

“This is ridiculous—”

“Is it?” Zane interrupted. “Because I found your scarf. Silk. Lavender. Torn during the struggle.”

Oliver froze.

Marla spoke next. “Even if he had problems with us — we wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Zane said calmly. “Destroy his funding? Threaten his wife to silence him? Finish what you started three years ago?”

The room was silent.

Zane stepped forward. “This wasn’t just murder. It was silencing history.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓪𝓵

Zane looked at every face in the room. He let the silence stretch.

Then, finally:

“The killer is…”

A pause.

“…Marla Vance.”

Gasps again.

Zane continued. “Roland was here to confront Oliver. But Marla feared exposure more. She followed him into the cabin that night, argued, and struck him. She planted the key, erased the photo, and tried to shift the blame.”

Marla’s face paled. Her hands trembled.

“How… how did you know?”

Zane smiled faintly. “You wore silk. In a snowstorm.”

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓖𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮

Later, after the police took Marla away, the lodge returned to uneasy calm.

Zane sat with Eli and Lyra near the fireplace once again.

Eli shook his head. “I swear, I kept thinking it was Oliver. You kept pointing that way!”

Zane smiled. “Distraction is part of the game.”

Lyra leaned in. “And what about me? Did I help?”

Zane looked at her, his voice soft. “More than you know.”

She smiled — and blushed again.

Eli gagged. “Can we go home now before this turns into a romance novel?”

Zane laughed.

The snow continued to fall.