“Wait.” Curtis strides in, checking the wardrobe and bathroom. “All clear.”

“Thanks,” I say sheepishly.

He studies me for a moment, and maybe he picks up on my fear, because his gaze softens. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll be out of here. Bang on the wall if you need anything.”

I lock the door behind him. All senses still on alert, I look around, but everything seems just as it was when I left it.

Relax, Milla. Nobody can get in.

With that axe, someone could presumably hack through the door, but at least I’d hear them. Then what? Shout for help?

What if nobody came?

I glance at the tiny window. In a worst-case scenario, I could probably smash the glass by throwing something at it and escape that way. Somehow. Bad leg dragging behind me. Is it big enough? I pull back the curtains. And almost scream.

Written across the fogged-up pane are three words: I MISS YOU.

My skin crawls. It’s not her. It can’t be her.

I stare at the message. It’s written in capitals like the secrets in the Icebreaker and the GUILTY on Heather’s mirror. Brent came along the corridor not long ago. It might have been him. I hope it’s him. I have to know. Steeling myself to go back out, I sweep my door open and check the corridor.

Brent opens his door, brandy bottle in hand.

“Did you write on my window?” I say.

He blinks. “What?”

I limp inside and the door clicks shut behind us. “Someone wrote I miss you.”

“It wasn’t me.”

The air rushes out of me. It can’t be her. She wouldn’t miss me.

Not after what I did.

Brent’s staring at me. “You think it’s Saskia.”

“I don’t know.”

His expression hardens. “Do you miss her?”

Guilt floods me. “Brent . . .” I know exactly what he’s talking about.

He slugs more brandy. “Night, Milla.”

We don’t hug; we’re beyond that now. I just limp out. Our relationship is damaged beyond repair. I damaged it. Damaged him.

Back in my room, I scrub the writing off the window. Someone—either Saskia herself or someone else—is slipping ghostlike around this building. The catch on the door doesn’t seem enough anymore. I search for something I can jam underneath it, just in case. My tube of sunscreen is the best I can manage.

Brent’s voice rings through my head as I lie in my cold, narrow bunk. You’re breaking up with me because I care?

He’s a sweet guy—who was barely an adult back then—and he did nothing wrong. Saskia was right—I used him. Snowboarding does something to me. It turns me into this demon who doesn’t care about anyone else. I saw that today out on the glacier, when I was more bothered about my backflip than looking for Heather.