“Does it hurt a lot?” she asks as I limp alongside her.

“Yep.” No point lying. I’m gritting my teeth so as not to gasp with every step.

The double doors swing shut behind us.

And the lights go off.

Heather squeaks. Bracing for her—or anyone else—to attack me, I fumble for my lighter and candleholder. I’m straining to picture the layout of the building. If someone comes in the main entrance, I’ll limp this way as fast as I can and lock myself in my dorm. If they approach from this direction, I’ll turn left and left again . . . and then what?

I can hear someone—Heather, I hope—patting the wall.

“I can’t find a switch,” she says.

“Don’t bother. The power’s out.” I flick the lighter on and see Heather’s pale face. My hand is shaking so much I’m struggling to light the candle.

Stop panicking, Milla. It’s not helping.

At last I have the candle lit. I check either way down the corridor. It’s just the two of us. “Let’s get your pills quick and get back to the restaurant,” I say. “It’ll be lighter in there with the fire.”

We reach her dorm.

“They’re in the bathroom,” she says.

Holding the candle in front of us, I limp inside. In the bathroom, Heather rummages through her bag and slides out the foil packet. She looks up and screams.

I lurch backward. She points a shaky finger to the mirror. A word has been scrawled on the glass with red lipstick. GUILTY.

Heather looks at me with terrified eyes.

What does it mean? Who is guilty—Heather or Dale—and guilty of what? Heather’s breaths are loud and fast in the candlelight, as are my own. I whip back the shower curtain and raise the candle to light up the corners of the room. There’s nobody there.

The wardrobe.

I glance around for something to use as a weapon but there’s nothing suitable.

“Hold this,” I say, and give Heather the candle. I don’t trust her, but right now I don’t have much choice. I want both hands free. If there’s somebody in there, I’m going to hit first and ask questions later.

Heather sticks close as I approach the wardrobe. I yank the door open. It’s empty. I take the candle back.

With trembling hands, Heather pops two tablets from the foil and swallows them. She catches my eye. “I get anxiety attacks.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Candle lighting the way, we head back down the corridor. Guilty. It could be about stealing Saskia’s credit card. Or part of a blackmail plot. I’m feeling really shaky by the time we reach the restaurant.

“I need to eat something.” I limp into the kitchen.