The wind howled through the stone arches of the remote convent high in the Italian Alps. Marcus Thorne, shivering in his coat, stood before the Mother Superior.
“She was here,” Marcus insisted, holding up the photo he had bought in Portofino. “The woman from the snow. Jane Doe.”
“Yes,” the nun nodded solemnly. “She came to us from the hospital in Turin. She called herself ‘Luna.’ She had no memory of her life before the snow, only that she felt… hunted.”
“Where is she?” Marcus demanded, hope surging in his chest. “I need to take her home.”
“She is not here, signore,” the nun sighed. “She left six months ago. She said the mountains were calling to her. She went south, perhaps to the coast, perhaps to another country. She did not say.”
Marcus stared at her, the world tilting on its axis. He had tracked her from the avalanche to the hospital, to the apartment, to the convent. And every time, he was too late.
He walked out of the convent gates and into the knee-deep snow. He looked at the endless, white peaks surrounding him–the same white hell that had taken her a year ago.
“Victoria!” Marcus screamed, his voice cracking against the wind. “Stop running!”
But only the echo answered him. He was a believer chasing a ghost that refused to be found.