And wasn’t that what Liza wanted too? For all her questions and her curiosities, wasn’t this, right here, right now, what really mattered? So she put the flypaper down and let Hanna lead her back to their room. They could have gone back to Belloc’s, but since a lot of the evidence was pointing to Mr Burgh as the killer, it didn’t seem like moving was going to help them much.

Once inside they locked the door, dragged an armchair in front of it, closed the curtains, locked the thumb drive in the safe, and went to sit on the bed holding hands and facing each other.

“I’m sorry,” Hanna said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I didn’t realise you were this freaked out.”

Liza was shaking slightly. “I don’t think I did either. It was just easier to—I don’t know—treat it all like a big mystery to solve instead of something that might actually hurt us.”

“And you did a good job,” said Hanna reassuringly. “The flypaper thing seems like it was probably right.”

“Maybe, but it does us no good.” She slid forward and let herself fall into Hanna’s arms; let herself feel protected for a moment, even if it was an illusion. “We still can’t defend ourselves.”

Hanna shook her head. “I know. But—but we’re as safe as we can be right now, and, well, if I’m going to be trapped in an inescapable murder hotel with anybody, I’m glad it’s you.”

It seemed like the moment to kiss her. So Liza did. And at first it still felt strange, like trying to remember something you were about to say that you were sure had been important. But after everything that had happened there seemed less and less point holding on to the past. Because who they were now wasn’t who they’d been when they met, or when they were married, or when they’d drifted apart. Or even who they’d been when Malcom Ackroyd had taken the long drop off the balcony.

As she let Hanna ease her back onto the bed, Liza was aware, suddenly, of everything around her. Or perhaps more accurately, was aware of being aware of it. Almost since she’d arrived, she’d been watching and listening for the slightest sign of something wrong: footsteps in the night, a dusting of snow that shouldn’t be there, the scent of blood in the air. It had been keeping her up at night and making her sick and tense. So, she let it go, let herself focus on something else—on Hanna, and the play of her hands across her skin, her lips tracing the line of her collarbones.

“Is this …?” Hanna asked. “Are you okay?”