With a sideways glance at Erin, who is lying sprawled on the sofa, drool coming out of the side of her mouth, I leave the living room. I run as quickly as I dare up the stairs to Elliot’s room. The door is unlocked, and I open his phone again. Then I navigate to the text messaging app, and Erin’s message to Danny. SOS. Please send help. IT’S LIZ.

His reply is still there. Fuck. Erin is that you?

The precipice is in front of me—and expertly, I swerve to avoid it.

No, I type. I already told you—this is LIZ. Erin has just confessed everything—and she’s talking about killing herself. PLEASE COME NOW.

And then I press send.

ERIN

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 5

Snoopscribers: 10

I lie completely still, listening as Liz peers into my cup and then stands over me, breathing heavily. Then she seems to make up her mind, and I hear the soft sound of her socked feet retreating into the lobby and the creak as she begins to make her way up the stairs.

I hold still for as long as I can bear, and then I sit upright, wincing at every rustle of fabric, every squeak of the sofa springs.

My arm and thigh are drenched with tea—but thank God, Liz didn’t seem to notice the spreading dampness on the sofa, only the empty cup.

The pills were in the kettle. I suspected as soon as I tasted the first gulp of tea—there was a strange, chemical acridity, and a very faint sweetness that must have come from the sugarcoating. And when I saw Liz putting the cup to her lips but only pretending to drink, I was certain of it. After that, I knew what I had to do. I had to pretend to drink too—taking advantage of the cover of darkness to slop the tea down my arm, onto the sofa, every time Liz turned away.

I had no way of knowing how long the pills should take to work—but I had to gamble on Liz’s ignorance too. She would have no way of knowing exactly what concentration I had taken, or how quickly it would take effect. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Whichever, she seemed to buy my performance of slipping into incoherence, and then unconsciousness.

Everything hinges now on whether she gave me enough to kill me. If she thinks she’s given me a fatal dose, I’ll be safe for a little while longer—at least until she comes back and notices I’m still breathing. But if she’s only given me enough to knock me out, she’ll be coming back very soon to finish me off. Will it be a pillow over the face like Ani, or a blow to the head, covered up as a fall down the stairs? Or something completely different?

Either way, I don’t want to find out. I have to get away, and the sooner the better.

Holding my breath, listening out for any sound from above, I hobble as swiftly and quietly as I can through the lobby, to the door behind the stairs, the one that leads to the ski lockers. My own ski clothes are up in my room, and I can’t risk trying to get to it, but my boots and skis are down in the storage lockers, and there should be enough spare clothing strewn around for me to put together an outfit that will at least keep me warm enough to ski in. I don’t have nearly enough layers to survive a night in the open, and I can’t walk on this ankle. I will have to get down to St. Antoine. But how? Skiing is the only option, and hope to God that the ski boot gives my ankle enough support to do it.

The door to the locker room opens with the gentle click, and I slide through, and close it with infinite care, my heart beating hard. It’s very dark inside, the moonlight filtering faintly through a window almost completely blocked with snow, but my eyes are used to the darkness, and I’m able to pick out the vague shapes of jackets and ski pants hanging from pegs, and boots drying on their once-heated poles. Hastily, my heart thumping in my throat, I yank on a pair of salopettes. It’s only when I look down at myself that I realize—they belonged to Ani. The thought that I’m literally stepping into a dead girl’s clothes makes my stomach lurch with guilt. But I can’t let myself get sentimental about this. Ani is gone—I can’t save her. But maybe I can bring her killer to justice.

As I struggle into someone’s ski jacket—Elliot’s, I think, judging by the size—I remember Liz’s self-pitying whine as she told me about everything that had happened. And the thing is, I could almost have bought it. I don’t know for sure what happened on that balcony—but I could believe that part of it, the frightened girl, the desperate shove. And I could believe, too, her cornered fear as she realized that Eva had her trapped—and her terrified reaction.

But Elliot—no. And most of all Ani. Poor little Ani, killed as she slept for nothing more than having seen something Liz didn’t want her to see.

Whatever Liz thinks about Eva, and that unnamed investor, and maybe even Elliot—Ani, out of everyone, didn’t deserve this. She couldn’t have.

Only a monster could have killed Ani.

It’s Ani’s face that I see before me now as I pull on wet ski socks, and search around for mittens.

Ani’s face, speckled with the scarlet dots that give the lie to Liz’s story.

Because Liz says that she never wanted Ani to die—but I know that’s not true. Ani must have fought. She fought for every breath, so hard that blood vessels broke in her skin.

And Liz stood there, and pressed the pillow down over her face, all that long, long time.

You have to want someone to die to kill them by suffocation. You have to want it a lot.

It’s Ani I’m thinking of as I open up my ski boot as wide as it will go. Ani, as I shove my foot inside, gritting my teeth as the pain in my ankle flares suddenly, bright and hot.

My breath is whimpering between my teeth, little sobs of pain coming in spite of the need for silence as I force my foot around the curve of the boot, hearing the bones in my feet click and grind in protest, feeling the swollen flesh squeezing against the hard plastic shell. But I have to do this. I have to.

Ani. Ani. Ani.

And then with a crunch, my foot slides into place. I’m sweating and shaking with the pain, cold perspiration on my upper lip. But my foot is in. And, miraculously, when I try to stand, the pain isn’t as bad as I thought it would be; the top of the boot is tight enough that I’m taking some of my weight on my shin rather than my ankle. I ratchet the boot clips as tight as I can, praying that the support will keep the joint stable for long enough to make it down the valley. If I have broken a bone, I may end up lame for good after this—but it’s better than dead.

Hastily, I shove my other foot into its boot and clip it up.

And then I hear a noise from the stairs.

My heart seems to stop. It’s Liz coming down the spiral staircase.

For a second I freeze. I have everything I need—but can I get out the back entrance? The ski door faces the same way as the swimming pool, and it will have been blocked by the avalanche.

It opens inwards. At least… I’m pretty certain it does. I press my hands to my temples, trying to remember. Does it? If it opens outwards I’m screwed, regardless. But I’m sure it opens inwards. The question is whether I can dig my way out.

And then my eyes go to the narrow little window above the ski lockers. It’s letter box–shaped, and although it’s certainly long enough, it’s probably only twelve inches high, less when you take into account the frame and the hinges. But it might be my best bet.