Pull yourself together. Brent’s going to be buried next. He won’t panic. He’s not scared of anything. I try to control my breathing, sucking in slow breaths through my nose. If I have to, I can bust my hand out and wave it around and they’ll come and pull me out.

Light. From a hole above my head. I laugh in relief as Saskia’s face peers down at me.

“Nothing here,” she says.

The snow is slammed back into place.

What’s she doing? She saw me. Didn’t she?

It’s darker than it was before. Has she piled more snow on top? Fear flutters across my stomach. What’s she playing at?

“Hey!” I shout. But I can’t hear them, so I’m guessing they can’t hear me.

I raise my arms and push upward. The snow grazes my fingertips; ice chips fly into my face. I blink them from my eyes, cold wetness coating my eyelashes, and punch again, but the snow is solidly packed. Is it my imagination or is it getting hard to breathe?

Why isn’t Odette doing something? I suck in gulps of air. Stop. Breathe slowly. Make the air last.

Curtis and Dale won’t let this go on for too long, will they? Actually they will. The longer the better, so they smash us with their faster time. Brent can’t help me; he went off to the kiosk for a snack. Will Heather even remember where she buried me in this fog? Even if she does, she won’t be in a rush to rescue me.

This was such a stupid idea. There’s no need for me to be down here at all. Why didn’t we just bury a transceiver like everyone else? I summon all my strength and try again, pushing upward with both hands. Snow showers over my head and into my mouth. I cough it out, really panicking now.

And a terrible realization hits me. Saskia planned this.

CHAPTER 35

PRESENT DAY

The dead black eyes of the stag stare into the restaurant. Its pale fur is matted, its antlers lined with dust. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s watching me.

The only sound is the rhythmic tick of the clock on the mantelpiece and the crackle of flames. It took me ten minutes to get the fire going. Everything in this place is damp.

Heather flits about the room like a trapped bluebottle. “Where the hell is he?”

I’m worried, too. Dale’s no idiot, but in this sort of terrain, accidents happen even to the best of them. He could be lying somewhere injured, buried under a slide or having fallen into a crevasse.

Unless this is some devious plan cooked up by him and Heather, in which case Curtis and Brent are the ones in trouble. Or is Saskia out there? In which case, they’re all in trouble.