The mood as we sit by the fire is very different from how it was last night. We eat in silence, slumped over our plates. The wind has picked up, rattling the panes. I picture Dale out there somewhere. Once the sun sets, the temperature plummets.

Heather’s grief has died down to quiet sobs that make her shoulders shake; her food sits untouched in front of her.

Curtis drags up another chair. “Keep that knee elevated.”

I try to lift it. Pain radiates up my thigh. I gasp and drop my foot back to the carpet.

Curtis crouches. “Let me.” He lifts my foot carefully, watching my face.

“Thanks.” I still feel weird about his touching me. I want to talk to him but I’m waiting for a moment when Brent and Heather aren’t listening.

Brent’s drinking brandy tonight. He pours himself another large glass.

“Sure that’s—” Curtis begins.

Brent cuts him off. “Don’t say it.” He downs the brandy and refills the glass.

“You need to eat something, Heather,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Hey, what happened to the clock?” Curtis says.

“Don’t ask,” I reply.

He kneels and sweeps the broken glass to the wall with the sleeve of his snowboard jacket. To the left of the fireplace, two rusty nails protrude from the wall an inch apart. I don’t recall seeing them yesterday. Did something used to hang there? I strain to think. A photo, maybe? Has someone taken it?

Heather’s voice is a furious whisper. “We’re here because of what you did,” she tells Brent.

From the corner of my eye, I see Brent glance up to check if Curtis or I heard. Curtis didn’t hear—he’s still dealing with the broken glass—and I pretend I didn’t either.

“Shh,” Brent whispers. “Careful.”

What the hell is it that Brent doesn’t want her to say?

CHAPTER 40

TEN YEARS AGO

I flip through the air and plummet back to earth, no idea which way up I am. Down . . . down . . . Is the trampoline even underneath me anymore? I brace for the worst.

There’s a ripping sound from my T-shirt as Dale yanks me upright. The trampoline rebounds beneath us, throwing us together. His inked arms steady me as I stagger for balance. We’ve worked up a real sweat and he’s stripped down to just a T-shirt, too.

“You were all right until you grabbed,” he says.

I’m trying to land a Crippler. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best chance I have of making the top three. Brent usually spots me but he’s being interviewed for Snowboard UK ahead of the Brits in two days’ time. I almost asked Curtis, but spotting someone on a tramp can get pretty intimate, and I don’t trust myself not to do something I shouldn’t.