It was November and almost dusk. I didn’t think he had noticed me, but he had. We had walked nearly two miles when he turned on me. “What do you want, you fucking weirdo?” he said, his voice cracking and breaking on the last word. Only he didn’t say it. He came right up into my face and screamed it. I could smell his stale breath and feel his spit hitting me as he shouted.

It was dark. Rain had begun to fall. We were in a lonely part of the park. A small part of me wanted to kill him. But I didn’t. Instead, I cowered away from him, cringing from his anger and then, when he pushed me and yelled, “Are you fucking desperate or what?” I ran. I was crying and shaking.

By the time I was hired at Snoop, I had learned my lesson. I kept myself to myself. I didn’t try to make friends. I didn’t trust anyone.

But Erin… somehow Erin seemed different. She was so friendly when we first arrived. I remember her sympathy when I asked her advice about the dress code, her kindness as she towed me to the ski lift that first day. She really seemed to like me. Now I am not so sure. What if she was pretending all along?

I want to go up there and ask her what she thinks of me, whether she is scared of me, what she is doing up there in the dark. But I don’t know how she would feel about that. Maybe I could say I was worried about her. After all, three people have died. It’s what a good friend would do. Look out for her. Check she was okay.

But would she see it that way? Would she know I was just being a good friend? Or would she give me that look again—that panicked, terrified look I saw in Kevin’s eyes when he turned on me. The one I saw in Erin’s eyes when she opened the door last time. The look that says, You weirdo. The look that says, I’m scared.

I am still dithering ten minutes later. At last I can’t take the silence anymore. I have to know what she is doing.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand up. I’m still wearing my ski suit, so I’m not that cold. My knee still hurts, but I can put my weight on it now. Really I am very glad not to be snowshoeing to the other chalet. I mean, I would never have fallen down the stairs deliberately, that would be a really stupid idea. I could have been killed. But it worked out well.

Still, I go carefully on the stairs, holding the handrail. The wood is slippery beneath my socks, the treads themselves are hard to see in the darkness, and I definitely don’t want another fall.

At the top of the stairs I pause, holding my breath, trying to listen. Where is she? In the staff quarters? I’m just about to turn left, to see if she’s down that end of the corridor, when I hear a noise. It’s a very slight one, but it is coming from the opposite direction—from the direction of the corridor that holds Miranda’s, Elliot’s, and my rooms. What would she be doing down there?

But before I can find out, I hear another noise from the same direction—this time unmistakable. It’s the sound of a toilet flushing. The door to Miranda’s room opens, and Erin comes out. She doesn’t look that surprised to see me, this time, instead she just smiles.

“Hi, Liz.” Her voice is slightly breathless. “Sorry, were you worried?”

“A bit.” I frown at her. “What were you doing in Miranda’s room?”

“I already flushed the staff toilet. I didn’t think Miranda would mind, and it was the closest. Um, Liz, fair warning—” It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but it looks like her face is a bit flushed. “Sorry, this is TMI, but I had a bit of an upset stomach. I think maybe the cassoulet wasn’t heated through properly. That’s why I—well, that’s why it took me a bit longer.”

“Oh!” I’m not sure what to say to that. Should I laugh? No, that would seem strange. I arrange my features into what I hope is a sympathetic smile. Then I worry that it might just look like a smile, so I frown instead. “Oh, gosh, poor you.”

“I realize you probably didn’t want to know that, but I thought I should warn you in case—well, I mean, we had the same supper—”

“Oh, I’ve been fine,” I say hastily. It’s the truth. I haven’t had so much as a twinge. But then I’ve always had really good digestion.

“Oh, good,” she says. There’s relief in her face. “I’d hate to have given you food poisoning on top of everything else.” She gives a shaky laugh, and then says, “Well, shall we?”

For a minute, I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but then she nods at the stairs, and I understand what she’s saying.

“Sure,” I say. But then something stops me. “Actually, you head down. I need the toilet as well.”

She nods, and begins to limp her way down the spiral staircase. I watch her go for a moment, and then I head down the corridor towards my own room. I unlock the door and slip inside, and go over to the built-in closet in the corner of my room. The door is ajar, which is how I left it. But, is it my imagination, or is it very slightly wider than it was before?

I stand stock-still for a long moment, looking at the door. It’s cracked open maybe two inches. It looks like a lot. It looks like a wider gap than before. But I can’t be sure.

Making up my mind, I open the door and pull out my suitcase, and then I unzip the lining. Inside, pressed flat against the base of the suitcase, behind the silky lining and a piece of card, should be a scarlet ski jacket. It’s too dark to really see, and I left my torch downstairs, but when I poke my fingers through the narrow gap, I can feel it is there—its downy softness reassuring. I let out a sigh of relief and sit back on my heels.

Then I zip up the lining and replace the case inside the cupboard, and I stand painfully and go through to the bathroom. I might as well make my story convincing while I’m here.

But it’s only when I’m halfway through peeling off my ski suit that something strikes me, something that stops me in my tracks.

That suitcase was on top of the stack, on top of my little wheelie cabin bag.

I left it the other way around. I am absolutely certain of it.

Someone has been inside my closet.

Erin? Or someone else?

My heart is thumping.

Slowly, very slowly, I pull up the zip of my jumpsuit, thinking hard, trying to figure out what to do.

Then I flush the toilet and walk back downstairs to try to figure out how much Erin knows.

ERIN

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 5

Snoopscribers: 10

From up above I hear Liz’s toilet flush, and I hunker down underneath the duvet, hoping I can pretend to be asleep when she comes back. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what can possibly have happened.

Thank God I heard her coming up the stairs and was able to leave Elliot’s room and nip two doors down to Miranda’s. If she had found me coming out of Elliot’s, I would have had to come clean. And the truth is, I am much too scared to do that.

What the hell does it all mean? Is Liz the killer? But how? Never mind motive, she has a cast-iron alibi. She was on the bubble lift going down the valley when Eva was killed.

Except…

Except no one actually saw her get on the lift.

I try to think back to that final run down the mountain as everyone had described it. Eva was coming up in the Reine bubble lift. Carl had fallen over at the bottom, trying to get on, and Ani was helping him. Everyone else was standing at the top of the blue run, Blanche-Neige, huddled in the screaming wind, waiting for Eva, Carl, and Ani to arrive.