“Because whatever was on there, implicates someone else. Someone he’s trying to protect.”

“Flaming Nora.” The words should sound funny, coming in Danny’s deep, matter-of-fact voice. In fact, they’re anything but. Actually I think I want to be sick.

“So you think I’m right?”

“I think…”

I can see Danny’s brain processing furiously, trying to find holes in my logic and failing. He pulls off his bandanna irritably, scrubs his face with it. “Fucking hell. I don’t know. I think you could be, and that’s enough to give me the cold heaves. What do we do? We gotta tell someone, right?”

“Who can we tell? And what could they do even if we did?” I wave a hand at the window, where the vicious wind is whipping the snow past the glass with the scouring force of a sandstorm. No one can go out in that, let alone fly a helicopter. You’d be mad to try.

“FUCK!” Danny bellows it, standing up and running his hands over his short hair like he can cudgel an idea out of his head.

“Shh!” I say frantically. “Be quiet! The others’ll hear.”

“But we have to tell them!” he says. “Don’t we? I mean what’s the alternative, we keep quiet and let some homicidal prick pick them off one by one?”

“We can’t tell them!” My voice is a screaming whisper now. “Are you mad? Tell whoever’s responsible for this that we might be onto them?”

“We can’t not tell them!” Danny takes my arms, and for a minute I think he’s going to shake me, like an actor in an old movie dealing with a hysterical woman, and I feel a desperate urge to laugh in spite of the predicament we’re in, but he doesn’t; he just stares into my face, his dark eyes very wide and as scared as I feel. But somehow seeing my own fear reflected back at myself, the realization that Danny’s as terrified as me, and that we’re in this together, it anchors me. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and Danny says quietly, “Erin, I’m shitting myself as much as you are. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to go down there and act normal, knowing that one of those hipster wankers might be an honest-to-God murderer. Look at me—” He holds out a trembling hand. “I’m shaking like a bloody leaf. Whoever’s done this, they’re going to figure out that we know something, and if we haven’t told anyone what we know, we’ll end up the same way as Elliot. The best way to make ourselves safe is to not keep this a secret.”

His words silence me. There is a kind of horrible logic in that.

“And besides,” he adds, “I reckon we owe the others the chance to protect themselves. What if they know something they don’t realize? What if they’re the next people drinking coffee with a kick?”

I swallow. But his words have an undeniable truth behind them. Put like that, it’s hard to justify not warning the seven innocent people in the chalet, even if that means giving the murderer a heads-up.

Murderer. The very word, hanging unspoken in my mouth, feels unreal. Is this actually happening? Are we really going to do this?

“Okay,” I say at last. I look out of the window, at the storm, a sinking feeling beginning to churn in my gut at the thought of the meeting to come. “Okay… maybe you’re right. So… what? How do we tell them? What do we tell them?”

“We tell them the truth,” Danny says. His expression is set and grim now. “We say we think Eva’s death may not have been an accident after all and that Elliot might’ve been killed for whatever he was about to tell Topher. We tell ’em to stay in pairs at all times, make their own drinks, eat nothing but stuff you and I serve them. We’re the only people who can’t possibly be suspected. We didn’t know any of them before they came here. We weren’t up on that mountain. We’ve got no connection to any of that group.”

I nod. Only… and I can’t bring myself to say this to Danny, not now… the problem is, in my case, it’s not quite true.

LIZ

Snoop ID: ANON101

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 1

I am up in my room with my head in my hands, trying to block out the reality of what is happening, when I hear the sound of the gong in the foyer being struck.

My head jerks up.

I open my door cautiously. Erin’s voice comes floating up the stairwell.

“—you could all come and gather in the lobby for a second. This won’t take long, and then we’ll serve lunch.”

I am not ready to face the others. But whatever is going on down there, I have to know. Maybe the police have been in contact. Maybe we are about to be airlifted out.

I take a deep breath. I flex my fingers. I open the door of my room and walk downstairs.

The others are all waiting in the foyer, huddled around the woodstove. It has got noticeably colder now. The warmth leftover from yesterday’s central heating has dispersed, and now only the two stoves downstairs are keeping the place from slowly freezing.

Erin is standing a few steps up on the spiral staircase. Her face is very white, and her scar looks more shocking than ever, a livid slash against her pale skin. Danny is at her shoulder like a lieutenant. I have to push past them to get to the ground floor. There are puddles on the wood in the foyer, where the piled-up snow is leaking in through the bowed front door, spoiling the polish.

When we are all gathered in front of them, looking up expectantly, Erin clears her throat.

“Okay, is everyone here?” She’s counting heads, and I realize with a shudder that she is thinking of our abortive meeting this morning, which ended with the realization that Elliot was missing. I taste blood, and I realize I am chewing my cuticle again. Disgusting little girl. I flinch. I shove my hands in my pockets.

“We’re going to serve lunch in the living room if that’s okay, the dining room is starting to feel quite cold. It’s salad—I know that’s not the most appropriate, but without electricity Danny is very limited on what he can cook, and we need to finish up the fresh vegetables, now that the fridge is off.”

There’s a mild grumble from Topher, but Miranda glares at him, and everyone else nods. We know we are not in a position to complain.

“But… the real reason we asked you all here—” Erin stops. She looks a little bit sick. Like she is working herself up to say something she really doesn’t want to say. Suddenly, I do not want to hear what she is about to say. “Danny and I, we…”

She looks over her shoulder at Danny. He gives her a look back. I am not sure if it is encouragement or impatience, but it seems to spur Erin on.

“We have some concerns,” she finishes, in a rush, “about the manner of Elliot’s death. We’re pretty sure that he—that he was poisoned.”

Little gasps come from all around the room. It is what they have all been thinking, but there is something horrifying about hearing the words spoken aloud.

“There are traces of crushed pills in his coffee,” Erin says, “and while he may have taken an overdose deliberately, the sabotaged computer makes it at least possible—”

Danny mutters something. His voice is too low for me to hear, but Erin sighs. She tightens her fists at her sides.