She glances all around, as though weighing her options. My finger tightens over the trigger. I can’t tell what’s going through her head. There’s nowhere for her to run. But will she try to take me out with her?

I could shoot her in the leg. That would put her out of action long enough for me to search for Curtis. Only I don’t trust my aim and I don’t want to kill her. I could—

She glances sideways again. Too late I realize what she intends.

She takes a step toward the cliff. And another. She’s going to jump!

“No!” I shout. It’s way too high.

But she steps to the edge. And leaps.

The fog folds around her and she disappears.

Cautiously I move to the cliff edge and peer downward. I can’t see the bottom but there’s surely no way she’ll have survived the fall.

Numb with shock, I limp back toward the piste marker. I can’t process this right now. Curtis must have been under the ice for ten minutes already and I haven’t even started looking for him yet. What if I’m too late?

By the time I reach the marker, my knee is about to give out, so I dump the rifle and slide down the slope on the seat of my pants. The piste is a lumpy mess of ice boulders. I pull my gloves off and reach into the neck of my hoodie, hands shaking so much I can hardly get my transceiver out. Hope I can figure out how to use this thing. I flick the switch on the side. Search Mode.

I hold the transceiver out. Come on, find him.

Nothing. The avalanche might have missed him. He might have ridden it out and escaped. But I’ve seen footage of avalanches in nature documentaries. The power, the acceleration. Far more likely Curtis is under there somewhere, buried out of range.

I stagger down the slope. Where is he? I’ve just lost Brent. I can’t lose Curtis as well. The minutes tick away in my head. It must be more than half an hour already. I push aside the image of him frozen and still.

A flashing arrow appears on the screen, along with a number—45—and my heart lights up. Curtis is under there somewhere, forty-five meters away.

The fog is thicker here. I limp across the snow, tripping over lumps in my hurry to get to him. The numbers count down: 39 . . . 25 . . . This is taking far too long. At last the whole screen starts flashing. I’ve found him.

I fall to my knees to scrape at the snow with my bare hands but it’s not budging. I claw myself upright and kick at it with my good leg. It’s no use. The snow has set solid.

Curtis is directly beneath my feet.

But I can’t get to him.

EPILOGUE