I’ve never played guys like this. I wouldn’t know how.

She stabs a glossy red fingernail at my drinks and says something I don’t catch.

“Sorry?” I say.

“That one’s the vodka.”

What?

A horrible possibility creeps into my alcohol-fogged brain. But Saskia wouldn’t do that.

Would she?

CHAPTER 7

PRESENT DAY

We rush into the cold, dark corridor. The basket where we left our phones is empty.

“Who took them?” Curtis’s tone is menacing.

“It was brand-new, that phone,” Heather says, close to tears. “And it’s got all my work contacts.”

“Calm down,” Dale says. “We’ll find it.”

Everyone seems equally confused.

I glance either way along the corridor. Did one of these four take them or is someone else in the building? I wish I could think straight. None of this makes sense. I can feel the effect of the whiskey already. Alcohol hits hard at this altitude and I haven’t eaten for hours.

“We can work out who didn’t take the phones,” I say. “Who didn’t leave the room? I went to the toilet before we played.”

“Did you see if the phones were there?” Curtis says.

I strain to think. “I can’t remember.”

“I went to get drinks,” Dale says. “And I didn’t notice either.” He looks at Curtis. “Why did you go out?”

“Phone call,” Curtis says. “Then the toilet.”

“Who did you call?” I ask.

Curtis raises his eyebrow as if that’s none of my business.

“Well?” Dale prompts.

“Why is that relevant?” Curtis says.

“It might be,” Dale says.

Curtis shoots an angry look my way. “My mum.”

“I went out twice,” Brent says.

“And Heather went out just now,” I say. “Shit. Any of us could have taken them.”

“And then what?” Curtis asks.

“Hidden them somewhere, I guess,” I say.

Eyes fall on Heather’s handbag. She’s the only one of us who brought a bag up here.

At thirty-three, I don’t own a handbag. I bought one once for my friend Kate’s wedding. Don’t you dare bring your backpack, Milla, she’d scrawled on the bottom of my invite. It was duck-egg blue to match my bridesmaid’s dress and I felt ridiculous with it, like a little kid playing dress-up. I donated it to a local charity shop straight after.

Heather’s is brown, and from the flashy gold tag on the zip, I’m guessing it’s designer. When she realizes where we’re looking, she flushes and tips it out onto the carpet. There’s a little silver purse, wet wipes, tampons, and a ridiculous amount of makeup. No phones. She looks up, defiant. “Happy now?” She scoops the lot back into her bag.

“The alternative is someone else took them,” Curtis says.

Heather’s eyes go wide. “But who?”

“You tell me,” Curtis says.