We check the men’s toilets in the same fashion. An icy draft blows down my neck and I notice the small window is open an inch. I stand on tiptoe to peer out, and imagine a hand dropping our phones, one by one, through the gap into the night. If that’s what happened, our phones are gone forever, because this side of the building faces the cliffs. But why would anyone want to do that?

“Was that window open earlier?” I ask.

Curtis swears and yanks it shut. “I didn’t notice.”

“Me neither,” Brent says.

Next door is a cleaner’s cupboard that reeks of bleach. We rummage through stacks of paper towels and sachets of soap for the dispensers. There’s a mountain of toilet paper. I check inside each tube.

I would rather die than admit it, but I’m glad to have these two with me. Brent especially, because being around Curtis gives me the jitters in a whole other way.

The corridor turns a corner. There are doors on either side, all locked. I tense as we pass each one, braced for someone to leap out.

“What do you reckon they all are?” Brent asks as he tests the last one.

“Offices, maybe,” Curtis replies. “Or storage rooms.”

The corridor reaches a dead end.

“There’s not much up here,” I say as we return the way we came. “What about outside?”

“Too dark to look now,” Curtis says.

“Can you remember what’s out there?” I say. “I can picture a couple of garages for the snowcats.” Big ones. The machines that groom the pistes are huge.

“Three, I think,” Curtis says.

“There’s that hut at the bottom of the tow lift,” Brent adds. “And the kiosk.”

“And the outside seating area,” Curtis says. “With deck chairs. Must be a shed or something where they keep the chairs.”

We return to the function room. Heather and Dale aren’t back yet. There’s a lot more floor space down there than up here.

Curtis shuts the door behind us and lowers his voice. “Reckon Dale and Heather are behind this?”

I stare at him. “But why?”

“No idea.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Heather looked pretty scared to me.”

“Or is she just a good actor?” Curtis glances at Brent.

Brent shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”

Curtis aims a kick at the door. “Someone’s messing with us and I don’t like it.”

Brent pours himself another large Jack Daniel’s. Interesting to see how these two are handling the tension. Brent’s dealing with it by getting drunk, Curtis by getting angry.

“Want one, Mills?” Brent says.

So much for the nostalgia-filled reunion that I imagined. I sigh. “Go on then.”

Curtis touches my arm. “Milla.”