“Right,” Curtis says. “We need some answers. We’re going through the shit in that game.” He nods at Heather. “Did you sleep with Brent?”

I wince. Subtlety was never Curtis’s strong suit.

Dale steps up close. “She doesn’t have to answer that.”

The two men eye each other. Dale is slightly taller—he must be pushing six foot, tall for a snowboarder; Curtis is broader.

“You going to ask me if I slept with Saskia next?” Dale says.

“Did you?” Curtis says.

“Did you?” Dale counters.

Curtis seizes him by the shoulders and barges him backward along the platform. A few meters beyond, the platform ends and the ground drops away into the night. A spindly metal barrier is all that stands between them and the cliff.

Brent and I chase after them. Knifelike icicles hang down from the roof above our heads. I’m praying they don’t choose this moment to fall. Brent moves in on Dale, so I come up behind Curtis. Risky approaching him while he’s this worked up. In theory I know what to do—when your big brother is a rugby player, self-defense is a matter of survival, plus I worked the doors of the Leadmill nightclub for a few years after I quit snowboarding.

Hoping I remember how to do it, I sling my right arm around Curtis’s neck, left arm behind his head, to put him in a choke hold. As soon as I feel him give up the fight, I release my grip. Curtis turns my way, shocked and furious in equal measure.

Dale shakes Brent off and says, “And you’d better watch it. You’re hardly my favorite person right now.” Eyes glinting, Dale straightens his jacket and returns to Heather’s side.

“We need to keep calm and figure out what’s going on,” I say, breathless.

“What about the ski lockers?” Curtis asks. “Were they all open?”

“All except one,” Dale says.

“Let’s see if we can open it,” Curtis says.

I shoulder my small backpack and pick up my snowboard bag. They’re not heavy; we’re only here for two nights, after all. I want my stuff where I can see it. The others are reaching for their bags too, and we drag everything up the stairs.

The locker doors are numbered, a hundred in total, and painted pretty pastel colors. Key rings dangle from their locks. I swing a couple of doors open and check inside. Farther along, Curtis does the same.

“We already looked,” Heather says.

I spot the locker that doesn’t have a key. Brent tugs at the door.

“I’ve got a screwdriver,” Curtis says.

“Give me a sec.” Brent pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket. We watch him slide the keys off the wire key ring and flatten out the wire. He twiddles it in the lock, removing it to adjust the shape.