I scan first to the bottom of the email to see who it’s from—and the name there makes me do a double take. Topher. What the hell is he emailing me for?

I frown. Then I scroll back up to read what he’s actually sent.

Dear Erin.

I expect by now you’ll have seen in the papers that Snoop has gone under. Fucking vulture capitalists. When you’re hot they can’t get their tongues far enough down your throat—and when you actually need them, you might as well have herpes.

If Eva was here she’d be saying I told you so, I expect, but she’s not—and so I can’t even give her that small satisfaction.

I got your email off the user database before we got locked out. I know. Don’t shop me. But listen, I wanted to say… oh fuck it. I don’t know. I’m sorry, or some bullshit like that. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you, but mainly, I’m sorry for being such a fucking prick about Alex and Will. I keep thinking back to that afternoon at the chalet when I realized who you were, and—well, look, I can’t take the words back, but I never apologized for saying them in the first place, so that’s what this is about.

I’m not very good at saying sorry. I haven’t had much practice, to tell you the truth, so I’ll just come out with it. Sorry. Alex and Will—they were good blokes. They didn’t deserve to have that happen to them, and nor did you. And I’m fucking sorry for what I implied—I don’t know how much you overheard, you were out of the room at the time, but I said some pretty shitty stuff in the heat of the moment, and I’m not proud of that.

Because here is the thing—now that the dust has settled, and I’ve had some time to come to terms with stuff, I get it. I get what losing people like that does to you. Eva—Elliot—they weren’t blood, but they were the nearest thing to it. Elliot and I came up through the prep school system together and Eva—I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Even after we broke up, we never really severed that connection.

So I get it now. I get why you didn’t tell us. I get why you couldn’t leave.

I think about them all the time. About Elliot, being postmortemed in some French morgue. About Eva, still up there, frozen in the mountain passes like Sleeping Beauty. And about Ani too, I guess. Fuck.

Anyway—that’s all really. I just wanted to say it one last time.

Sorry.

Topher

x

PS I just wanted to tell you, that file—I handed it all to the police. It felt like the right thing to do in the end. And for what it’s worth, I did it last week. Before all this happened. It’s not why Snoop went under—I’d like to say it was, but it wasn’t. But I wanted you to know.

When I look up from the screen, I’m surprised to find my cheeks are wet. And although I don’t know what to say, I hit reply and sit, for a long time, my fingers just hovering over the keys. And then I type. Just eight words. And I really, really hope they are true.

Dear Topher, it’s going to be all right.

ERIN

“Oh, mate.” Danny’s arms are around my neck, his face is buried in my shoulder. “Gonna miss you, you stupid cow.”

“I’m going to miss you too.” I hug him back, feeling his strong shoulders, hard beneath his down jacket, smelling his permanent scent of French cooking—of simmering wine-rich stews, and melting butter, and sautéed garlic and all good things.

“You gonna be all right?”

I nod. Because for the first time in a long while… I think I am.

“I have to go home,” I say, and I mean it this time. Not home, St. Antoine, but home to England, where Will’s grieving parents and my own family have been waiting patiently for me to make peace with my ghosts.

I have been alone with them for so long, listening to the Will and Alex in my head, trying to come to terms with what happened, with what I did—trying to come to terms with the responsibility of having said those four little words, Let’s go off-piste.

Lying there in the snow with Liz, feeling her life ebbing away beneath my fingers, I realized—I can’t keep running anymore. And maybe that’s okay.

“And are you going to be all right?” I ask. In the distance the coach is coming, I can hear the sound of its snow tires against the plowed road. “What are you going to do? Try for a job in one of the other chalets?”

“Oh,” Danny says, and to my surprise, he’s gone a little pink. The tips of his ears, just visible in spite of his beany hat, are tinged with rose. “Oh yeah, well, actually, I’ve got a place lined up.”

“You have?”

“Yeah.” He coughs, a little awkwardly. “Um, you remember that B and B the police put us in?”

“The one with the shit cassoulet? Of course I remember!”

“Yeah, well, they’ve sacked their chef. And, well, um, well, a mate put in a word for me.”

“A mate?” I am grinning broadly now. “A mate? Would that mate by any chance be sexy Eric the landlady’s son? Monsieur Piña Colada from Le Petit Coin?”

Danny is blushing so furiously that I can’t help prodding him in the ribs, making him laugh.

“Oh, Danny! What did you have to do to earn that?”

“Never you mind.” Danny’s cheeks are glowing, and he’s half glowering, half grinning back, but I can see the happiness radiating out of him. “Bit of nepotism never did no one any harm.”

“I very much doubt it was nepotism,” I say. “One taste of your cassoulet and Eric would be mad not to snap you up.”

I want to know more. I want to know everything, but now the bus is nearly here, and there’s no time. I kiss Danny on the cheek and he picks up my other bag and when the coach draws up, he hands it to the guy in charge of loading the luggage.

“Look after her,” he says in French to the driver as I make my way carefully up the steps. I don’t need a crutch anymore, but my ankle is still in the Aircast. “She’s not as tough as she looks.”

“Bien sur,” the driver calls back, and winks at me.

I am sliding into my seat when I hear Danny calling something through the thick window, and I pop open the little vent at the top of the pane and kneel up on the seat to look down at him.

“What is it?”

“I forgot to say—download Choon!”

“Choon?”

“It’s the new Snoop, mate. Only better. C, H, double O, N.”

“Choon. Got it,” I call back. And then the coach begins moving and I shut the window. It picks up speed, and I’m waving to Danny, and he’s waving to me, and kissing his hand, and I feel a tear tracing down my cheek.

He’s calling something through the glass, but I can’t hear what.

“I can’t hear you!” I shout. My face is crumpling. I swipe at the tears on my cheek, feeling the tight ripple of the fading scar slick beneath my knuckles. “I love you!” But we’re too far up the road, and I know he didn’t hear either.

I sink back into my seat, feeling my heart ache for everyone I’ve lost, everything I’m leaving behind in the mountains. Another tear rolls down my face, and for a minute I think I’m not going to be able to hold it back—the tears are going to come whether I want them to or not, and I’m going to bawl my heart out on the bus. But then my phone gives a single beep.