But instead of squeezing, his hands loosened the knots. The doe was disoriented by her sudden freedom; he had to nudge her to her feet. He stroked her straight, muscular back and felt all her primordial energy flowing into his own limbs.

He yelled, and the doe sprinted toward the trees in quick, elegant leaps, until she was reunited with her fawn.

He stayed where he was, still kneeling in the snow, his heart convulsing as it did every time life got the better of his predatory instincts.

Looking for dry earth, he found a patch of ground covered in fallen pine needles and sat with his back resting against a tree trunk while his empty stomach growled in protest. He took out two stained paper bags from the pocket of his sheepskin coat, retrieved a few strips of cured meat from one, and began chewing intently.

The other bag contained something entirely different.

Something precious.

-9-

-9-

The victim was called Roberto Valent. He was a civil engineer, born and raised in the valley. He’d left to go to university and lived elsewhere for a few years after graduating, but had returned with his wife and son when hiking enthusiasts and professional climbers began to discover the beauty in this corner of the world, boosting local tourism. Valent had been managing the construction site for a new ski slope.

The Valent family lived in Travenì, in a chalet made of hardwood and limestone. Their house was the size of a villa, and stood on a sloping, south-facing meadow that must have been sunnier than most during the summer months. There was no fence or wall around it, and the borders of the property were only marked by flowerbeds, currently bare because of the cold.

An old lady with a desolate air about her was taking down the Christmas decorations from the windows, as if the house itself should be dressed for mourning. She was thin and wore a black dress. When she saw the police car enter the driveway, she retreated behind the shutters.

Teresa thought she must be Valent’s mother, and knew for sure when she rang the doorbell moments later and the same lady opened the door. Her eyes were red, her eyelids swollen. She said her daughter-in-law would be receiving them in the parlor, and showed them the way, dragging her feet in their felt slippers along a parquet that smelled of beeswax. Teresa offered her condolences, to which the woman choked out a brief reply, her silver head sinking between her bony shoulders. She was the embodiment of frailty, yet she must have carried hidden reserves of strength if the loss of her son hadn’t completely broken her.

“Please take a seat. Marta will be here soon,” she said before slipping away to make coffee.