Art glowered at the slope. He hated it—hated it for how steep it was, for how quickly it had accelerated that little ball of snow, and for how it would turn his body's potential energy into sheer and destructive speed.

I could go down the way we came.

He looked to his left, to the ridge that still carried the footprints of their ascent. It glimmered in the sunshine, calling him with its promise of a gentle way down.

"Do you need a hand, Art?" Adriana snickered at his side.

"Watch, I'll show you how to do it." Jake took a step into the abyss.

Art expected the man to topple over and to vanish in a blizzard of enraged snow. But he didn't. Rather, he glided down effortlessly, in long, slow-motion strides. Then he halted his steps, slid some more, came to a stop, and looked up at them. "Come on!" He waved a pole.

Before Art could open his mouth, Adriana moved forward. Her steps were too short to imitate Jake's elegance, but she trotted downhill as if it were the most natural thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. Just a stroll.

His heart pounded hard and way too high up in his chest. He took a breath, then he set a foot into the mountain's flank.

The snow yielded under his weight, totally failing to stop him. The only thing Art could do was take a second step, moving his trailing foot forward. He was carried downslope, losing height and gaining speed.

And so it continued, one foot in front of the other, always gliding, hardly braking. The snow rustled and hissed around him, sliding and flowing like a fluid companion joining him for the ride.

"Yeah, this is it," Jake called.

Art didn't turn his head to look at the caller, keeping his eyes on the descent before him.

In a billowing cloud of ice crystals, Jake materialized beside him. "Isn't this great?"

He steered himself away from the man's swinging poles. His pacing was steady now, and so was his speed. Still fast, faster than any of his jogging, but manageable. He even had some degree of control over his path. He was fall-gliding along a zig-zag line, always accompanied by his own, private mini-avalanche.

Art felt awake, alert, alive. And he wore a broad grin.

Jake was the first one to reach the bottom of the valley, followed by Art. The ground leveled out where they came to a stop. They looked back at Adriana. Approaching fast, she was moving in quick strides—a polar jinn who had unwound her gyrating dance into a straight line. A laughing jinn, almost losing her balance a few steps above them. Then she, and a river of frozen water trailing her, made their landing on the snow-covered road they stood on.

She fell over. "Love this!" The heap of Adriana and snow laughed.

Gipfel wine.

As she got up, Art turned away to take in the new surroundings. The road, its sides marked by red stakes, took a meandering way down along the valley. A snowball's throw away from them, a tiny chapel stood on a small hillock. A fat layer of snow covered its roof, and its single, white-walled spire reflected bright sunlight. It was the only building in sight.

Jake pointed a pole at it. "St. Antonio Chapel." He smiled.

"Cute," Adriana said, beating snow from her arms.

"Gertrude... my aunt, she loved this chapel. I've been here with her a couple of times."

Trying to give her a heart attack by running her through the mountains?

The elation triggered by the descent had ebbed away.

"She... she was married here." Jake's voice was hoarse.

Pained by the memory, are we now?

"That's so sweet." Adriana placed an arm around Jake's shoulders.

"This place here..." Jake took a breath, seemingly unaware of the woman's attention. "This is the only place where she ever let her defenses down. Life wasn't easy on her after her husband's death. But she was a tough woman, always showing the world a strong face. Yet, here... she smiled."

She could still be smiling if it weren't for some killer trying to get her money.

The bitter bile of anger rose in Art's throat.

Below the chapel, the valley narrowed. As the slopes flanking it became steeper, the road clung to the one on the right side. The brook cascaded over a series of rocks to continue its noisy descent to the left and below them.

Their path lacked footprints and other tracks—the smooth back of a giant, white snake threading its way through some trees. The snow's top layer was frozen. It carried their weight and made progress easy.

As they emerged from a copse of firs rooted to the valley's side, Art saw a bridge ahead. It crossed the gorge that the water had delved into the rock. Their road headed towards it.

"The bridge spanning our hearts," Jake said. "That's what she used to call it."

"Whose hearts?" Adriana asked.

The road to the bridge was broad enough for the three of them to walk abreast, with Jake in the middle. Art kept to the right, as far away from the chasm as possible.

"The couple's hearts... Gertrude's and her husband's."

"That's soo touching."

"Is it true that they made a fortune in South America?" Art's anger had phrased the question before his brain could scrutinize it.

Jake looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "A fortune?"

"Yeah, your aunt and her husband."

The man's gaze was on the bridge they were approaching. He pressed his lips together, then he gave a slight nod. "They deserved it... the money. They only had a few years together, a few years of happiness. Fate... at least... was kind enough to take care of her needs after that."

And now, fate takes care of your needs, does she?

They walked in silence. Adriana reached for Jake's arm, but he failed to react.

You don't know, girl, who you're fawning at...

The snow covered the bridge's surface in a thick wad, almost up to its railings. They walked it single-file, Jake took the lead, followed by Art, with Adriana at the end.

"That money..." Art talked to Jake's back. "Do the police know about it?"

There it was, he had asked it, a question that truly mattered. If the police knew about that money, they'd give the nephew a closer look—a much closer one.

Jake stopped. He didn't look at Art but down along the valley. Finally, he shrugged.

The bridge stood in the shadows of the mountains while the outskirts of the village in the distance were bright in the sunshine. The gushing water was thundering in the gorge far below them.

Art thought of the smudges that Monica's and his fingers had left, side by side, separated by the prison's glass. "Don't you think you should tell the police about it? About that money?"

Jake turned his face towards Art—his expression unreadable. "You don't believe that Monica Marez killed her, do you?"

"No." Art shook his head. He felt hot, flushed with irritation. "And I won't let this rest until I find out who it was."

Jake's eyes widened.

Now you're scared, aren't you?

Something struck Art's back—a forceful blow. He lost his balance, stumbled, saw the edge of the bridge approaching and Jake reaching out for him, missing him. Then, he was falling. And he felt the actual act of falling. A surprising sensation, normally too short to notice—this one time, it lasted way too long.

———

A/N: Now folks, what has happened here? And, above all, why?

A/N 2: If anyone is interested in another #grownupreads tale, I've just posted my contribution to the "Washed Away" contest. That's a short-story competition run by some of the official WP profiles here, such as @AdultFiction . The story (it's one chapter only) can be found in my book "Fleeting Thoughts", and it's called "Sex on the Beach". I know short stories are not everyone's cuppa, but it does sport some Generation Knooch characters. (If you're on a web browser, you can use the "External Link" below to get there.)