She sat bolt upright at that and glanced around the room. ‘Stop talking so loudly about it,’ she hissed. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?’

‘The money you asked for. I think you might owe it to someone.’

‘Ernie, listen, I don’t want it anymore. Not if you’re going to humiliate me like this. I never should have asked. I’ll survive.’

‘Why do you need fifty thousand dollars if you’re not paying someone off?’

‘I don’t owe it to anybody.’ Her tone was clear; that was the last time she’d say it. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

‘Someone was in your chalet last night,’ I said.

She squinted, scrunching her cheeks up like she’d eaten something foul. I’d surprised her. I couldn’t tell if she was surprised that someone was in her room, or surprised that I knew about it.

‘While you were in mine,’ I explained. ‘Remember how my phone rang? It was from your room – I know that because when I called back, you picked up. I figure someone was looking for something, and they must have knocked the speed dial.’

‘By someone, you mean Green Boots? You think he was in my room? Looking for money?’

‘It’s occurred to me.’

‘That I killed a debt collector to protect myself?’

‘Or someone killed him to protect you.’

She thought about that for a second. Not being a detective, I had a difficult time distinguishing whether this pause was out of offence or calculation. She tilted her head slightly and said, ‘Before I respond to that salacious accusation: have you decided yet?’

‘You mean about the mo—’ I remembered her hiss to keep it down. ‘I haven’t really had the—’

‘So you haven’t decided?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘Will it help your decision if my life’s in danger?’ She drummed her fingers on the table.

I reached across and put my hand on hers, stilling her. With as much gravitas as I could manage, which, for me, is not much, I said, ‘Is it?’

I looked up and noticed she was holding in a grin. She let it split her face. ‘Come on! Listen to yourself. Debt collectors? What, like for the mob? Do we even have a mafia in Australia? I think you’re racially profiling me because I’m South American.’ She wrinkled her nose comically.

‘That’s more the cartel than the mob,’ I said. ‘It’d be a drug mule, not a debt collector. If we’re typecasting you, that is.’

‘Oh, well, in that case. Chain me up.’ She held out her wrists in mock compliance.

‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. It’s no excuse, but it’s hard to think straight out here.’