Page 119 of If You're Reading This
She burst into the open space and saw them—Logan and Morgan both tied to massive columns of ice near just inside the entrance of the cave. Both were conscious, both were moving. They were alive.
Duke rushed to Logan, his knife already out to cut the restraints. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
“We’re fine,” Logan said as Duke sliced through the ropes binding him to the ice column. “Thanks to Morgan. She saved us both.”
Duke moved quickly to free Morgan while Ranger secured the perimeter, their weapons drawn as they scanned for threats.
“Where’s Zimmerman?” Andi asked as she helped Morgan away from the ice cave.
Logan pointed toward the far edge of the clearing. “He won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”
Andi followed his gesture and saw the camera equipment scattered near what looked like a drop-off. She approached carefully, pulling out her flashlight to peer over the edge.
Twenty feet down in the rocky ravine, Tom Zimmerman lay motionless, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. His camera had landed nearby, the lens shattered, film spilling out like dark ribbons across the stones.
“What happened?” Andi asked.
“He was so focused on getting the perfect shot that he backed right off the cliff,” Logan explained. “Morgan convinced him he needed a better angle.”
Duke joined Andi at the edge of the ravine, shining his own light down at the scene below. “He’s not moving.”
Yazzie appeared beside them, studying Zimmerman’s broken form. “You know what’s sick? He probably would have appreciated this.”
Andi looked at him questioningly.
“The composition,” Yazzie continued, his voice carrying a note of disturbed realization. “Think about it from his twisted perspective. The broken camera, the scattered film, his body arranged against the rocks with the aurora overhead. In his sick mindset, he’d probably see the beauty in it.”
Andi stared down at the scene, understanding what Yazzie meant. Even in death, Zimmerman had become part of an artistic composition—the failed artist finally becoming the subject of his own work, framed by the very wilderness he’d used as his killing ground.
“The irony would appeal to him,” Duke said. “The photographer finally photographed by death itself.”
Andi turned away from the ravine, unable to look any longer.
Behind them, Logan and Morgan stood together in the center of the clearing, his arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest.
Above them, the aurora borealis painted the sky in brilliant greens and purples, its light casting an ethereal glow over the two trees that had nearly become their graves.
For a moment, Andi could see what Morgan had captured in her original photograph—the contrast between death and life, despair and hope, all set against the infinite beauty of the Alaskan sky. But unlike Zimmerman’s twisted vision, this composition spoke of survival, of love enduring against impossible odds.
“It’s over,” she said, as much to herself as to the others.
Logan nodded, pulling Morgan closer as the aurora danced overhead. “It’s over.”
Yazzie’s radio crackled with dispatch coordinates for the medical examiner and crime scene team. The forest would soon be filled with investigators and photographers, documenting Zimmerman’s final scene from every angle.
But for now, in this moment under the northern lights, there was only the quiet satisfaction of a case closed and two people who had found their way back to each other against all odds.
The aurora pulsed brighter, as if the sky itself was celebrating their survival, and Andi allowed herself a small smile. Sometimes, even in the darkest cases, there were endings that resembled something like justice.
Tom Zimmerman had spent months planning how to arrange death into artistic compositions. In the end, it was death that had arranged him.
As the rescue team spread out to secure the scene, Logan walked with Morgan toward the edge of the clearing, away from the controlled chaos of the investigation.
His arm remained around her shoulders, and he could feel her trembling—not from cold, but from the emotional aftermath of everything they’d endured.
“Hey.” He stopped near the tree line where they could have a moment of privacy. “How are you really doing?”
Morgan looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting the dancing aurora overhead. “I keep thinking about how close we came to losing everything.”
