Dale wanders to the main entrance and seems like he’s about to open it.

No. Please don’t. I couldn’t cope with hearing that sound again just now. Sooner or later I’m going to have to open it again and go out there, but I’m jumpy enough already and I need time to psych myself up.

Dale slips and grabs the wall for balance. “Shit, the floor’s wet.”

Sure enough, there are damp patches on the floorboards leading up to the entrance.

“Are they footprints?” I say.

“Looks like it,” Curtis says grimly. “Did anyone go out?”

Silence. But if they did, their shoes would be wet. As unobtrusively as I can, I check the others’ shoes. Am I imagining it or are the tips of Brent’s DCs darker?

“Here we go,” Brent says, sliding the wire out.

Impressive, but he always was good with his hands.

We crowd in as he swings the locker door open, but the locker is empty. Curtis, who is closest, does a sort of double take, as though something just occurred to him, and looks around sharply to scan our faces. Is he thinking Brent opened that door a bit too easily?

“So where’s our phones?” Dale says.

“You tell me,” Curtis replies.

I tense. These two look like they’re about to square off again.

“Can we eat?” Brent asks.

Curtis turns on him. “We need to find the fucking phones.”

“I know, but I’m starving.”

Curtis raises his voice. “Do you realize what this means? The lift isn’t running, we have no way of contacting anyone. If we can’t find our phones, we’re stuck here.”

“I’m hungry, too,” I put in. “Can we discuss this over dinner?” Food might mop up some of the alcohol so I can think straight.

Heather looks incredulous. “How can you think about eating when someone’s doing this to us?”

“It’s no use being hungry as well as stressed out,” I say.

Curtis yanks up his bags and stalks off toward the restaurant. The rest of us hurry after him. He’s by the bar as we enter, inspecting the security camera on the floor. We dump the bags in a pile.

Heather nods at her handbag. “Keep an eye on that, could you?” she tells Dale, and bustles off to the kitchen.

I sneak another look at Brent’s DCs. “Are your shoes wet?” I ask him quietly.

Brent glances down. “Must be whiskey.”

“Right.”

“Let’s see if I can get that fire going.” He heads off to the fireplace.

I reckon I can light a fire as well as any of them, but I want to ask Heather about Brent, so I head to the kitchen.

The herby tomato aroma makes my stomach rumble. Heather peers into the saucepans and turns on the electric rings.