For a couple of moments, he didn’t stir; the close-up camera would record almost nothing different in his demeanour, but Clover could see his breathing had become more shallow, that a sudden bleakness had come into his eyes. Then he sat forward in the seat suddenly. ‘He chose to do what he did. He chose to ride.’ He was speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t see the double set coming in. I was focused on the clock . . . When I saw him go down and stay down . . . I tried to get to him. I did what I could.’

‘But it was too late,’ she said simply. ‘He was under the water for four minutes and thirteen seconds.’

He stared back at her with a blackness that made her feel her skin might blister. As though she was responsible for what he’d done. ‘. . . Could you hold your breath for that long?’

He blinked. ‘No.’

‘. . . Do you try?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You still train like a surfer. Even though you’re now living in a country with no coastline.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘In the pool, at this chalet here in Zell am See, you practise holding your breath, don’t you?’ Her stare was even. It was her turn to weaponize their mistake.

‘. . . Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Habit.’ He shrugged.

‘Not guilt?’

‘No.’

‘Not . . . trauma?’

‘No.’

‘As you said, you were out there trying to save him, to get to him. It must have been a horrific few minutes, dealing with those waves, trying to find him. Knowing that with every passing second—’

‘Stop!’ His jaw balled. ‘Just stop . . . I was there. I remember.’ He looked away, out of the window.

She waited for him to bring his attention back to her; she knew the footage on the close-up camera would be capturing his conflict.

‘How long can you hold your breath for, Kit? What’s your PB?’

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. ‘. . . Four minutes, eight seconds.’

She let the silence lengthen, let the intimation become clear – it would have been five seconds too much for him too.

‘Do you miss him?’ Her voice was soft, gentle. His eyes narrowed, instantly distrustful of her sympathy.

She waited for his answer. Would he be snide here? Give an answer of defiance just to deny her the revelation she was pushing for?

‘Yes.’ His voice was different. The brittle hardness had gone.

‘If you could go back, do things differently . . . would you?’ It was the question Cory had never answered.

‘Of course I would. I’m not a monster!’ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. ‘But I can’t, so . . .’ He gave a shrug, the hardness coming back to his face.