The wind howled relentlessly outside the cabin, a savage beast clawing at the walls with icy talons. Mia Reynolds sipped her wine, savoring the warmth spreading through her chest as she gazed at her husband, Mark, across the flickering candlelit table. Five years of marriage, and this remote getaway in the heart of the Colorado Rockies was his perfect anniversary gift. No cell service, no internet—just them, snowed in, wrapped in each other’s arms.

‘To us,’ Mark said, raising his glass. His crooked smile lit up his face, making her heart skip.

‘To forever,’ Mia replied, clinking glasses. The crystal sang a sweet note, drowned quickly by the storm’s roar.

Mark had insisted on this spot. ‘Isolation is romantic,’ he’d said when she worried about the forecast blizzard. She’d trusted him, as always. Mark was her rock, the man who’d pulled her from grief after her parents’ death, inheriting their fortune but also their loneliness.

After dinner—venison stew from the freezer—they danced slowly in the living room. His hands on her waist felt strong, reassuring. ‘I love you more every day,’ he murmured into her hair.

Then, the lights stuttered. Flicker. Darkness.

‘Generator in the shed,’ Mark said, grabbing his coat and flashlight. ‘Stay put. Five minutes.’

The door slammed shut. Mia lit candles, the flames dancing shadows on log walls. Minutes ticked by. Ten. Fifteen.

A branch cracked outside, sharp as gunfire.

She pressed to the window, breath fogging glass. Footprints led to the shed, swallowed by fresh snow. No return.

‘Mark?’ Her voice small against the gale.

Crash! Glass exploded in the kitchen.

Poker in hand from the fireplace, Mia’s pulse thundered. ‘Who’s there?’

Footsteps. Slow, heavy, crossing floorboards.

She retreated to living room, back to wall, poker raised like a sword. Candlelight twisted shadows into monsters.

Footsteps halted.

Banging at front door. ‘Mia! Open up!’

Mark!

She unbolted, snow blasting in. Mark tumbled inside, clutching ribs. Blood stained his parka.

‘Intruder in shed,’ he gasped. ‘Knifed me. Chased him off.’

‘Oh God.’ Mia locked door, dragged chair under handle. ‘Phone?’

No signal. Landline dead—storm lines down.

Mark peeled shirt. Gash oozed. ‘Bastard’s still out there.’

She bandaged with towels, hands shaking. ‘Why us? Robbery?’

Mark winced. ‘Who knows. Barricade everything.’

They shoved furniture against windows, doors. Fire popped, only light and heat.

Midnight. Scraping at window. Nails on pane.

Mia stifled scream. Mark gripped poker. Shadow flitted past.

‘Trying to break in,’ Mia whispered.

‘Gun in attic,’ Mark said. ‘Cover me.’

Ladder creaked as he climbed. Rattling above.

Thud! Silence.

‘Mark?’

‘Got it.’ He descended, revolver gleaming. ‘Loaded.’

Back door rattled like hell unleashed.

Mark shoved her aside. ‘Down!’

Bang! Bang! Through wood.

Eerie quiet.

‘Hit him?’ Mia trembled.

‘Hope so.’

Dawn’s gray seeped in. Storm raged.

‘Check body,’ Mark said. ‘Might have truck keys.’

‘No! Dangerous.’

‘I’ll go.’ He pocketed gun, stepped out.

Shot cracked!

Mia yanked door. Mark limped back, thigh bleeding. ‘Alive. Shot back. Finished him.’

No body—dragged into woods?

Mark collapsed, pale. Mia bandaged thigh, fetched whiskey.

As she worked, noticed limp—right leg. Mark’s old soccer injury was left knee. Odd.

Stress, she thought.

He’d drunk red wine tonight. Mark avoided it—migraines. ‘Brought your meds?’

‘Forgot. Fine.’

Noise from basement.

‘Forgot basement,’ Mia said.

‘Together.’

Flashlight down creaky stairs. Damp air, boxes.

Figure lunged!

Chaos. Grunts, thuds.

Mark fired. Body slumped.

Light on dead man: rough face, knife clutched.

‘Intruder,’ Mark panted. ‘Over.’

Relief flooded Mia. But dead man’s build… familiar?

Upstairs, Mark rested. Mia eyed him. Neck— no childhood burn scar visible in firelight. Always there before.

Paranoia crept. Trust frayed.

While he dozed, she climbed attic. Duffel bag behind crates. Zipped open: chloroform rag, knife like basement’s, map with cabin circled, ‘her’ circled, arrow to cliff.

Her insurance policy—double indemnity ‘accident’. Clipping: her parents’ obituary, fortune noted.

Photo: two men, identical. Mark and… Evan, twin brother. Presumed dead in car wreck 10 years ago. Estranged, jealous of Mark’s life.

Wallet fallen from ‘intruder’ pocket downstairs—Mark’s ID, photo. Real Mark.

Pieces slammed. Imposter killed real Mark, took place seamlessly. Small tells ignored: limp, wine, scarless neck, over-eager isolation.

All ‘protection’—staging attacks to terrorize, kill convincingly.

Basement body: real Mark, lured here, stabbed.

She gripped revolver.

Downstairs, ‘Mark’ stirred. ‘Mia?’

She aimed. ‘You’re not Mark. You’re Evan.’

His face twisted, grin wicked. ‘Clever girl. Finally.’

Lunged.

Struggle. Gun skidded.

He pinned her. ‘Mark had it all. Now mine.’

Knife to throat.

She kneed groin, grabbed poker, swung.

Crack! He crumpled.

Gun in hand, she fired. Center mass.

Silence.

Storm broke, sun pierced clouds. Mia stumbled out, flagged ranger truck.

‘Twin… killed Mark… tried me.’

Police came. Truth unraveled.

Evan faked death, stalked, killed brother weeks ago, impersonated perfectly.

Anniversary trap for her death, inheritance his.

Mia alive, trust shattered forever.