“At the Brits. The one that made you fall. You tried it because I’d told you I was going to.”

She frowns. “It was a Haakon flip. It was always part of my routine.”

“Oh. But I distracted you right before your run.”

She looks at me like she has no idea what I’m talking about. “I do not blame you for the Brits. I blame you for Saskia. She was mine. You knew that. You have . . .” She searches for a word. “Polluted all that I had with her.”

I try to process it. All those years I thought I’d caused her accident. She’d kicked me out of the hospital and I thought that was why. Maybe she’d just wanted time alone to process what had happened to her. Still, I can’t ignore my role in the tragic chain of events. If I hadn’t slept with Saskia, Brent wouldn’t have pushed her, she’d have been there at the Brits, and Odette might not have screwed up her flip.

Odette’s expression hardens. “I thought Saskia slept with Dale. Heather said this in Glow Bar. That’s why she slept with Brent.”

I picture Odette’s face as she ran out of the bar that night. So the secret in the Icebreaker referred to Dale. Mentally I check off the other secrets. She knew Heather and I had slept with Brent. The final two—I know where Saskia is and I killed Saskia—had to just be fishing. Assumptions that she made, just like I did, on the basis that whoever did it was unlikely to have acted alone.

“But I was wrong.” Odette stabs the rifle at me. “Saskia did not sleep with Dale. She slept with you. We were friends, as you said. How could you do that?”

Her anger seems fresh. Shit. Because she’s only just found out from listening to Brent a few minutes ago.

What kind of rifle is that anyway? I know nothing about guns. An air rifle? For hunting animals, maybe?

She sees me looking. “I do biathlon these days. You know it? Cross-country skiing and shooting. We must hit five targets forty millimeters in diameter from fifty meters away.” Her smile creeps back. “For two years now, I have been training in secret with my brothers. It was my focus, my raison d’être.”

I understand her need for secrecy. After her horrific accident, the French press would have been all over her. Her pride was at stake. She didn’t want the world to witness her struggle. I’d be the same.

“My back cannot survive no more impact. I am too old to be a snowboarder, anyway. But female biathletes peak when they are thirty-two.”

And she’s thirty-two, because she’s a year younger than me.

Her smile widens. “I’m very accurate. I hope to make the French Olympic team.”