Brenna parks the rental pickup at the end of the driveway. Turning the key in the ignition, she

winces as the poor machine coughs and sputters, its vigor nearly spent from the half-hour trek from

Anchorage. The heater had blown enough warm air over her to keep her muscles from completely locking

up. Now, as the puffing machine stills, she fights the everpresent chill in the air. She gathers her things in

her lap, shuffling through her bag. one more time. She clocks her fully charged cell phone and her taser -

just in case. The manilla envelope adorned with her looping handwriting taunts her. For good measure,

she examines the contents of the file: the printed emails, the laminated receipts, the transcripts from the

interviews, even the elusive photograph of the manor’s owner shaking hands with her father, on whose

finger sparkled the elusive golden ring, brilliant even in the black and white. Then, her eyes peer out the

near frosted window.

At the end of the semi-circular stretch of pavement lies Nebel Manor, a gorgeous structure of

massive windows and grey, peaked roofs that nearly scrape the clouds. Its five or so stories heightens its

grandeur to match the rows of evergreen trees surrounding it. A grand and sweeping vista of mountains

brackets the manor and down the sheer slope of gray cliffs is the sapphire expanse of Turnagain Arm. The

stone of the manor itself is a pearlescent whitish-blue stone that most certainly did not come from the

local Alaskan quarries. Such stone must have been imported from somewhere across the Pacific, then

shipped across the frigid waters to bring a temperate diamond to this strange, boreal place.

Stepping out of the car, Brenna adjusts the strap of her crossbody, clipping the metal clasps shut.

She strides across the driveway and traipses up the stairs leading to the impressive set of double doors,

carved of impressive oak. There is no bell or button to press. Instead, two large door knockers made of

brass glare down at Brenna, their faces in the shape of two roaring lions. Brenna inhales deeply, holding

that breath while she picks up the brass ring and bangs it against the door three times. The deep, hollow

sound rings out even behind the doors. A pause. Brenna releases the breath through her lips.

The doors open. The man who steps out is wearing a well-pressed navy sweater and gray slacks.

His salt and pepper hair has been coiffed and swept back in a neat wave. A pair of solemn blue eyes stare

out from behind a set of glasses. He’s handsome, of the aristocratic breed to be sure, and Brenna has seen

his face in thousands of photographs.

“Good morning.” She is careful to keep her voice level, not too much emotion leaking through. “Godfrey Nebel?”

“I am,” he replies. “You must be Ms. Hilden.”

“Yes, sir,” says Brenna. “Where would you like to conduct this interview?”

“My library should do the trick. You must be freezing. Come in before the cold kills you.” When

he smiles at Brenna, his teeth seem to glisten. The effect on most is flattering, even attractive. To Brenna,

the smile reminds her of a wolf baring its fangs. Godfrey steps back and holds the door open. The inside

of the manor sparkles like a freshly cut diamond with a large room that leads to two sweeping staircases.

The white marble floors and gray accents to the walls and ceilings remind Brenna of winters back home

in New York: monochromatic and heartless. As she steps in, her heels clack on the floor, causing an

immense echo.

“This way,” says Godfrey. He leads her past the grand foyer to a hallway lined with paintings of

modular, modern patterns. At the end of the hall, a doorway leads them to a dim room with thick curtains

of sapphire velvet covering the large window. Bookshelves line the walls and several leather chairs sit at

cocked angles across the floor. Godfrey lounges in one of these chairs, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he

sits down. Brenna takes a seat across from him and pulls out her cellphone. She notes the way he groans

and adjusts his hips as he sits.

“Mr. Nebel, I am required to obtain verbal confirmation from you that you are allowing me to

record your voice, so if you would not mind repeating after me as I begin this audio recording.”

“So stiff,” Godfrey says, crossing his legs. “In my day, the journalists would smile and ask how

your day was before doing an interview.”

Brenna looked at Godfrey with self-control pulsing through every fiber of her being.

“I’m merely reflecting the reputation of the Post, Mr. Nebel, so please give me your verbal

confirmation that I am allowed to take this interview.”

Her words leave a tension that thickens in the growing silence that follows. Godfrey gives her a

long look, his eyes scanning her face. For a moment of a fluttering heartbeat, Brenna fears he may alight

his gaze upon her nose and see the familiar bump just below where her glasses now sit. Or maybe he’d

recognize the ambition that shone behind her eyes, another inheritance from her father. But instead, he

reaches for a watch on his wrist, the face of which shows a phone-like screen. He presses a button on it,

and the digital whoosh of a message being sent rings out in the silent room.

“I’ll need coffee for this,” he grumbles.