“Bloody hell,” Carl says, jumping up from his place to help me with my crutch and my chair. “You look even worse than Inigo, and that’s saying something.”

My seat is next to Tiger, and she puts her arm around me as Carl pushes my chair in, holding me in a warm, one-sided hug.

“Erin,” she says. “Are you okay? It must have been terrifying. I’m so sorry—we never should have left you.”

“It’s okay,” I manage. My eyes are filling with tears. I can’t think what to say. My ankle, inside the Aircast, is throbbing painfully, and I can feel their eyes on me. It’s a welcome distraction when Danny pulls out the chair on my other side and slumps into it with a sigh.

“Smells like that bleeding cassoulet again,” he says morosely. “It was bad enough last time.” Somehow his irritation breaks the ice, and Inigo is smiling, a watery grin.

“Bit louder, mate,” Carl says, as the young waitress—the same girl from reception—comes into the room carefully carrying three plates of thick pale stew on a tray, breathing heavily with concentration as she navigates round the corner of the table. “We want to be sure she spits in the right plate.”

“Going by the stuff they served the other night, spit would probably improve it,” Rik says under his breath.

“Shh,” Miranda hisses severely, and Rik grins, and rubs the back of her neck with an easy intimacy that makes me think whatever their situation at home, these two will not be going back to England as just colleagues. Something has changed between them, something irrevocable, and Rik looks stronger, more determined than the person I met just a few days ago.

Topher, by contrast, looks like a pale, deflated version of the charismatic man who stepped off the funicular. It’s not surprising in a way—he has lost his cofounder and his best friend, a terrible price to pay for regaining control of his own company, by any standards, and one that seems to have aged him, and scuffed away some of his confidence and sheen. He’s still seated at the head of the table, though, and when the cassoulet is served he taps his fork on his glass, and clears his throat as we all look round expectantly.

“Um… look, this won’t take long,” he says, and then stops, and rubs his forehead wearily, seeming to have lost the thread of what he was about to say. “But I—well, I’ve had a couple of bits of news. I thought you deserved to know as soon as possible.”

He takes a long swig from the glass of red wine at his side, and then grimaces, and wipes his mouth. I don’t think it’s the kind of vintage he’s used to drinking.

“The first thing is, well, there’s no easy way to say this.” He swallows, his throat working. “The, er, the buyout offer has been withdrawn.”

There is a murmur from round the table. It’s a mixture of shock and concern, but there’s not much surprise in people’s voices. Rik and Miranda share a glance.

“What does that mean for the company valuation, if you take Snoop public?” Carl asks bluntly. Topher doesn’t answer. Rik folds his arms, his mouth a thin line of annoyance.

“In the toilet, am I right? You don’t need to bullshit here, Toph. You’re not wooing investors. It’s not surprising, is it? High-profile massacre on company time, one partner dead, arguably the one the investors liked more—”

“Rik!” It’s Tiger speaking; she stands up, her chair screeching on the tiled floor, her face twisted, her air of serenity quite gone. “Rik for God’s sake! Does this matter? Eva is dead. Elliot is dead. Ani is dead.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “How can you give a fuck about share valuation?”

She is right, and Rik knows it. He sinks back in his seat, and shrugs slightly feebly.

“It’s a fact,” he says, but not like he’s arguing with her, just like he’s trying to backtrack on his own insensitivity. “That’s all I was saying.”

And the thing is, he’s right. It is a fact, and an important one to the people who are losing their money, and the employees who may soon be losing their jobs when Snoop’s bubble bursts. But Tiger is right too. It’s a fact that pales into nothing compared to the loss of their colleagues.

“What was the second thing?” Miranda says. Her interjection, into the uneasy silence after Tiger’s outburst, is unexpected, and Topher looks nonplussed for a moment. “A couple of bits of news, you said,” she prompts. “What was the other thing?”

“Oh.” Topher looks… I don’t know. Sickened, almost. He rubs his face. “I got a letter. I mean an email. From Arnaud.”

Arnaud? Danny glances at me, frowning, and then I remember. “Eva’s husband,” I whisper, and Danny’s expression changes to comprehension and unease.

“Has he heard?” Rik says. He looks a little sick. Topher nods.

“The police told him. They haven’t given him the full picture, just the basic facts, that she’s been involved in a fatal skiing accident. Anyway, he sent me a file.”

“A file?” Miranda’s expression is confused. She’s not the only one. “About Eva?”

“A folder. About lots of people. Letters. Photos. Videos. Eva asked him to send it all to me in the event of her death. Arnaud hasn’t seen any of it, it was password protected, but I’ve been through it and… there’s this one video…” He runs his hand through his mussed blond hair, tousling it, but it no longer looks like it’s sticking up in a way that’s been artfully tweaked into place, it just looks like a mess. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with it, you know? Eva’s dumped it in my lap, and the rest of it’s bad enough but this—this thing—I feel like it’s too much for one person.”

He looks… the word comes to me. He looks lost.

“You want us to watch it too?” Rik says. “All of us?”

His glance flickers at me and Danny. He doesn’t say it, but the implication is clear—is this private Snoop stuff? But to my surprise, Topher nods.

“All of you. It concerns everyone here.”

Beside me, Danny is frowning, and I know how he feels. Something is about to be dumped onto us—and I don’t understand what. Why is this to do with me and Danny? Did Eva send something to her husband before her death?

Topher pulls open his MacBook, clicks a link, and taps in a password. Then he angles the screen towards the rest of the table, and, with a glance at the door to the kitchen to check the waitress isn’t hovering, he presses play.

For a minute it’s hard to make out what I’m seeing. It seems to be footage from a mobile phone, but it’s nighttime, and the resolution is grainy and poor. It looks like a garden—or no, a balcony, because I can see rooftops beyond. A man and a woman are standing there, talking, but although I can hear the breathing of the person filming, I can’t hear anything from the couple talking on the balcony, which makes me think they are being filmed from inside, through glass.

The woman is leaning against the opposite wall, and her face is in shadow, making it impossible to tell who she is, but there is something about her stance that looks both familiar, and more than a little tipsy. She is steadying herself with a hand on the wall, and when the man leans in, offering her more champagne, the glass she holds out is definitely swaying.