“But how?” Danny says. He looks like he might be sick. “How the fuck did someone get to him, if that’s what happened? Something in the coffee?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Should we go and, you know… check?”

“I don’t know,” I say again, more forcefully this time. My head is spinning, trying to figure out the right course of action. “The police will want to—I mean, we shouldn’t disturb the scene. But maybe if we knew what it was—”

I look down at the key in my hand and make up my mind.

“We’ll go and check. We won’t touch anything, we’ll just look.”

Danny nods, and together we make our way quietly up the service stairs to the first floor, trying not to let the others see where we’re heading.

We don’t discuss our decision to stick together, but I know we are both thinking the same thing. If Elliot didn’t commit suicide, then someone in this group is a murderer. And that is a very scary idea indeed. Could one of those sleek, monied hipsters downstairs really have murdered someone? I try to imagine gentle Tiger with her slim hands around Elliot’s neck, or Topher whacking him with an empty bottle of whiskey—and I feel suddenly sick.

The staff key grates in Elliot’s locked door and then turns, and Danny and I tiptoe inside the room. It is very cold, and it smells of spilled coffee, and something else, more acrid: that stench of urine, which I recognize from my hospital days.

Danny hangs back, by the door, as if he can’t bring himself to come any closer to Elliot’s body. So it’s clearly up to me. I swallow. Very, very cautiously, trying not to disturb anything, I move forward towards the desk. Elliot is still lying in the same slumped, unnatural position, his face in the puddle of cold black coffee. I already moved him slightly to check for signs of life, but I want to avoid disturbing the scene any further. So without touching him, or anything else, I lean over and try to peer inside the empty, fallen cup. It’s difficult, without moving it; the angle is all wrong. I go round to the other side of the desk—and suddenly, there I can see it.

Shit. Danny was right.

“There’s something in the cup,” I tell Danny, who is not coming any closer than he can help. “Something white.”

“Sugar?”

“No, definitely not. It’s… chalky.”

“Fuck.”

I straighten up and Danny and I look at each other, trying to figure out what this means. His black eyes are very, very worried.

“I think this rules out suicide,” I say, with immense reluctance. I am keeping my voice low. I don’t want anyone but Danny to know I’m in here.

“Do you think?” Danny looks like he is desperate for an alternative. I can’t blame him. “What if he was really bad at taking pills—don’t you think someone might crush them?”

I shake my head.

“You didn’t see him eating, Danny.” I think of Elliot at dinner, spooning down his venison with concentrated ferocity, swallowing great gulps of it while barely chewing. “But it’s not just the pills. Look at the computer.”

“What do you mean? He could have smashed it up himself, couldn’t he?”

I shake my head, pointing to the wreckage, strewn across one of the chalet’s thick, fluffy white bath towels.

“Someone wrapped it in a towel before they destroyed it. Which means they didn’t want to be heard. If it was Elliot smashing up his own laptop in a fit of frustration, he wouldn’t have bothered to keep the noise down. And if he was trying to cover something up covertly, he’d just have reformatted the hard drive—why take the risk of smashing it up if you can just rewrite all the data? No, this was done by someone who couldn’t log in. Someone who couldn’t afford to be overheard.”

We both stand, contemplating the smashed screen and broken pieces of hard drive. Danny doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure there is anything he can say.

Then something else occurs to me.

“Were they his pills, do you think? Did he take any medication?”

“We’ll have to ask the others.” Danny looks like he’s relishing the prospect about as much as a slug enema. “Jesus. How do we have that conversation?”

How do we discuss any of this. Hey, guys, listen, there’s a strong chance one of your colleagues is a murderer.

But why? Why would anyone want to kill Elliot? His shares? His support for Topher? With Eva dead, is it possible someone is trying to undermine Topher’s support?

None of that would explain the destruction of Elliot’s computer, though. It is the computer that I keep coming back to. That vicious, efficient, stealthy act of destruction. That could not have been an accident. And I don’t for a second believe it was Elliot.

There is only one plausible reason for this action—to hide something on the computer itself. Something Elliot knew. Something that got him killed.

I think of Topher’s anguished wail, when we found Elliot’s body: Oh God, oh Jesus—he wanted to tell me something…

I swallow.

“Danny, what if Eva’s death wasn’t an accident?”

LIZ

Snoop ID: ANON101

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We sit, all of us, huddled around the woodburner in the living room. Except it is not all of us, that is the problem.

Now we are ten.

Now we are nine.

Now we are eight.

The words chant inside my head, a kind of gruesome countdown, edging closer to zero, one by one.

Suddenly I think I might vomit.

“Was it…,” Tiger speaks. Her voice is cracked and rough, as if she has been crying. “Was it… suicide?”

“No!” Topher’s answer comes as quick as a gunshot. He stands up. He begins to pace. “Fuck no. Elliot? Never.”

“So what?” Rik stands too, squaring up to Topher as if he is about to punch him. “What are you saying?”

Topher looks at him. I think he genuinely does not understand Rik’s question.

“Use your head, Toph. If it’s not suicide”—Rik’s voice has an edge I have never heard before. He sounds… dangerous—“Then it’s murder. Is that what you’re saying, Topher? Is it?”

Topher’s mouth falls open. Then he sits abruptly. He looks winded, almost as if Rik really had punched him.

“God. You’re right. Oh my God.” His face is ashen. “Elliot,” he says brokenly. And then he begins to cry.

It is awful, watching him. None of us knows what to do. Rik looks at Miranda, whose face is aghast. Carl puts his hands up in a Don’t look at me, mate gesture of repudiation. Inigo’s expression is pure panic.

It is Tiger who steps up. She goes to sit beside Topher. She puts her hand on his arm.

“Topher,” she says. Her voice is gentle. “We all feel his loss, but it must be incalculable for you, more than any of us. Coming on top of Eva’s death—”

She stops. Not even Tiger can spin this as what will be, will be.

“Why?” Topher’s mouth is square and ugly, tears running down his cheeks. He looks so far from the polished, urbane sophisticate I used to know; I am not sure if I can bear it. “Why would anyone do this to him? Why would they hurt Elliot?”