“Inigo, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say more gently. “What happened? Did you fake that phone call, after all? Why?”

“What?” It’s his turn to look taken aback. “No! God no! How could you think such a thing?”

“Then why did you run away?”

“I told you! I left a note—because I made such a stupid mistake.”

I suppress a sigh of irritation and wonder, not for the first time, whether Inigo was ever actually that good as a PA. How did Topher put up with him?

“Yes, but you never said what the mistake was,” I spell out. “We all thought—” And then I stop. Inigo flushes again, even deeper this time, but he puts his chin up.

“I know. You all thought it was me. That’s why I had to leave—to put things right. The mistake—God, I was so dumb. I told the police we were at Chalet Blanche-Neige.”

For a minute I don’t understand. Then my mouth falls open. I have a sudden, vivid flashback to Inigo on the phone to the police. Yes… okay… Chalet Blanche-Neige.

Blanche-Neige. Snow White. Perce-Neige. Snow drop. An easy mistake to make for someone who didn’t speak French. But one that was fatal for Ani. Oh, Inigo, you idiot.

“I know Chalet Blanche-Neige,” I say slowly. “It’s about ten miles away, over the other side of the valley. Of course. Of course, that’s why the police never came. You told them the wrong place.”

Inigo nods, in miserable assent.

“It was such a stupid fucking mistake. And I realized the next day what I’d done, and I kept trying to get through to explain, but the line was just dead,” he says brokenly. “So I knew the only thing I could do to try to put it right was ski down to the town, to tell the cops in person what had happened and where we were. So I left. I know it was stupid but I just felt so—so ashamed, and I wanted to put things right. I knew if I told anyone what I was doing they’d try to come and I didn’t want them to, I didn’t want to put anyone in danger because of my mistake. But instead—” He gulps, and I see tears brimming in his eyes. I know he is thinking, as I am, of Elliot, and of Ani, both of whom might still be alive if the police had come that afternoon, if they had known where to look. “Instead I got lost, skied into a tree, and woke up in hospital.” He touches his forehead, the surgical bandage I saw when we sat down. For the first time I notice the rawness of the skin on his cheeks and fingers, the blackened tips of his ears, where frostbite must have set in. “If only I hadn’t—” His voice breaks. “If I didn’t—”

“Inigo, you couldn’t have known,” I say softly. “It was a mistake—just a terrible mistake.” These are words people have been saying to me for months, years now. You couldn’t have known what would happen, when you suggested skiing off-piste. It’s not your fault. It was just a mistake—just a terrible mistake.

They are phrases that have always seemed meaningless. Now, suddenly, it is vital that Inigo believes them.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, urgently, putting every shred of conviction that I can muster into my words. I put out a hand to touch his, feeling his rough, blistered fingers. Inigo winces, but then looks up at me. He gives a weak smile. I don’t know if he believes me. Maybe. Maybe not.

Ani and Elliott might still be alive if Inigo had said the right name. But he didn’t.

Maybe he will learn to live with what happened, just as I did. Just as I do.

ERIN

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 8

Snoopscribers: 160

I don’t see the others until dinnertime, when the hotel serves up a hearty, veggie-unfriendly dinner at 7:00 p.m. sharp. There is no reservation, no picking and choosing your meal or your time. This is family dining—you come down when the chef tells you and you get the plat du jour, or you don’t eat. It’s quite restful.

I’m in my room, curled up in bed, more than half asleep when I hear the dinner bell ring, and I get up painfully, feeling the aches and pains in my bones from the last few days, and rubbing the side of my cheek where it’s imprinted with the wrinkles of the pillowcase. Then I step out into the corridor.

I’m limping along to the stairs when a door opens and another guest comes barreling out, almost knocking me over, making me drop my crutch. I bend over to retrieve it, feeling my ankle scream in protest, and when I straighten up I’m about to make an irritated remark, but then I see the guest’s face. He is standing stock-still, just looking at me.

It’s Danny.

“Danny!”

I fling my arms around him, but he just stands, unresponsive, and then, like ice thawing, he seems to melt, and his arms creep around me, holding me in a hug that is at first gentle, then firm, and then crushingly hard, almost as if he’s trying to make himself believe I’m here and solid flesh.

“I never believed her,” he says at last, his deep voice coming to me as much through his chest, where my face is pressed. “I never believed her. That text—I knew something was wrong. I set out straightaway—I’ve never walked so fast in my life—but you were gone. I thought you’d died. I thought—I thought—”

But he can’t finish. He just gulps, pressing his face into the top of my hair, and I feel the wetness of his tears on my parting.

“I should never have fucking left!” he says, and his arms tighten. “I knew you wasn’t safe to be left alone. I told you, don’t do anything stupid. And what happens? Skiing off-piste with a broken ankle? You ain’t Jason effing Bourne.”

I shake my head, and tighten my grip, burying my face in his shoulder, trying to hide my shaking sobs. I love him—I love his attempts to lighten the atmosphere and make a joke of this, but I can’t even pretend to laugh. All I can do is hold him and cry, and cry, and cry, for everything.

“Fucking hell,” he is saying, his voice rough and soft in my ear, rocking me back and forth, back and forth. “You’re okay, Erin. You’re all right, pet.”

And I want to believe him. But I’m not sure if it’s true.

“You look like shit,” he says at last, pulling back to look me up and down. I feel like he wants me to laugh, and part of me wants to. You should have seen the other guy. The riposte is on the tip of my tongue. But Liz is dead, and it doesn’t feel funny. Instead, I just shrug and Danny’s lip curls into something close to a snarl.

“Fucking bitch.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t—you don’t know what she—”

But I’m interrupted by the clanging of the dinner bell for the second time, and Danny rolls his eyes.

“Better go down. You ready?”

“Not really. You?”

“I’m fine, mate. You’re the one who pulled off the Bear Grylls stuff.”

I laugh, but my nerves are still jangling as I make my way slowly and awkwardly down the narrow stairs from my room, crutch clamped under one arm, the other supporting my weight with the rickety banister.

When I enter the dining room, they are all there—all the people who are left, at any rate. Topher, Tiger, Rik, Inigo, Miranda, and Carl—they are all seated around the long dining table, and when I come in, unsure of my reception, there is a collective intake of breath and then, to my surprise, Topher breaks the silence with a slow round of applause that is taken up first by Inigo, and then by Rik, Miranda, and all the others.