Teresa and Marini had been forced to wait for a snowplow before they could drive to her place. They were following it now as it pushed at walking speed through a series of sharp, tricky turns. Marini was focused on his driving and hadn’t said a word since they had set off. Teresa observed the landscape. The moment they’d begun to climb, they had been swallowed by low clouds girding the mountain peak like a crown. The world had transformed once again, this time into a limbo of mist, ice, and fading light.

After a few hairpin turns, the snowplow stopped. The driver stuck his arm out of the open window to draw their attention. They stopped the car and got off. The air was saturated with minuscule particles of water. They were breathing clouds.

The man pointed at something in the middle of the road. About a hundred meters from where they stood, two flashing lights cut through the fog.

“Stay inside and don’t come out for any reason,” Marini told the driver, who needed no convincing.

Marini and Teresa drew their weapons and started walking. They saw a jeep with its engine still running, its exhaust fumes mixing with the mist.

They edged forward, alert to the shadows around them, jumping every time a lump of snow happened to slide off an overburdened branch.

“There’s someone inside,” said Marini.

Through the back of the vehicle, they could see the head of a man wearing a hat. The license plate matched the one they were looking for.

Marini called out Abramo Viesel’s name, but the figure in the car didn’t move.

Teresa pointed at the snow beneath the door on the driver’s side. It was red. Blood was still dripping down onto it. She closed her eyes for a moment.

Once again, we’ve come too late, she thought.

Martini opened the door and swore. The body had been placed on the driver’s seat, its hands bound to the steering wheel with string.

“The skin’s covered in blood, but the clothes are clean,” he said.

Teresa was still gripping her gun, and she felt her hand shake as she lowered it.

“That’s not his skin. He’s peeled the skin off and put the clothes back on.”

She had to walk away to regain her composure. When she looked again at the scene she saw a shape on the road lit up by the car’s headlights. For a radius of two meters around it, the ground wasn’t white: the floury snow there looked like a pool of strawberry ice cream. The involuntary association made Teresa feel sick. It was blood. This was the spot where the killer had celebrated his ritual.

She squatted down and swept the snow aside, exposing the hide of an animal.

“Maybe that’s how he makes them stop,” she said out loud to ensure Marini heard her.