He’s right. I gulp, imagining us chased onto the snow by a mad axe woman. Our snowboards lean against the wall by the door. I glance at mine, making a mental note to grab it on my way out, if I need to. I can’t run with my knee like this, but with my board on I have a chance of getting away from her. If I can somehow cross the flat and the trap—or traps—to where the incline begins.

After that, it all depends on Brent’s role in this. I couldn’t outride Brent ten years ago and I certainly can’t outride him now.

As we tiptoe down the corridor, I hear voices.

“I think they’re in the monitor room,” Curtis whispers. “I’ll go round the other way. Come at them from behind. They won’t be expecting that. Just stay back, okay?”

I nod, although I have no intention of doing that. Curtis heads off down the right-hand corridor. I creep forward past the ski lockers.

“We have to find Dale.” Heather’s voice is shrill. “Why aren’t you looking for him?”

“I told you,” Brent says. “Curtis and Milla are out there looking.”

“I don’t believe you. You don’t care about him. I think you’ve done something to him.”

“Jesus, Heather. Put that thing down. You’re scaring me.”

“I bet they’ve gone down the mountain.” Her voice raises. “You’re going to leave Dale here.”

Brent keeps his voice low and calm. “There’s no need for this. Curtis and Milla are out there, I swear. I’ll go and help look for Dale, too. That what you want?”

Someone steps into the corridor. I push the nearest door on the right—thank God it opens—and dive inside as fast as my knee will let me. It’s the storage room where they keep the ropes and harnesses. I peek out through the gap in the door.

Brent and Heather are heading this way, Brent in front, Heather right behind with the axe. I open the door another inch. Brent’s eyes widen when he sees me. He waves me back and shoots a nervous look over his shoulder at Heather. I retreat behind the door while she passes and peep out again to watch them continue down the corridor.

Brent opens the main entrance and the wind whistles in.

“I can’t see them.” Heather waves the axe around, movements unpredictable, as though she herself isn’t sure what she’ll do until she does it.

Brent backs away. I hold my breath for him.

“They might be behind the garages,” he says.

Heather steps out. She’ll struggle out there in her heeled boots.

“You need your scarf and gloves,” Brent says. “I’ll run in and get them for you.”