Curtis cuts in. “She’s right. It seems to me that there are only seven people who could be responsible. One of them has lost the use of her arms and legs; another has been missing for ten years and declared dead. That leaves us five.”

The words hang in the air. Nervous looks all around.

“Anyone heard from Odette?” Dale says.

Under the table, I dig my fingernails as hard as I can into my thighs. He’s looking at me, so I shake my head. I’ve deliberately never Googled her; that way I can tell myself she might have made some miracle recovery. Or regained some use of her limbs at least. Because if she hasn’t . . .

“I FaceTimed her last week,” Curtis says.

My head jerks his way. “You keep in touch?”

“Hardly. Only once or twice since we left here.”

I brace myself. “And how is she?”

The sadness in his eyes tells me all I need to know. “Still in a chair. She can move her arms but only a little. I thought I might go see her before or after the reunion depending on where she’s based these days. But she wasn’t up to it.”

Heather stands. “Why are we just sitting around? I want to get out of here.”

She’s looking at Dale as though he can magically transport her down fifteen kilometers of ice and rock back to the resort in total darkness.

“We’re not going anywhere tonight,” he snaps. “Have to wait till morning.”

She looks to the rest of us for confirmation.

“Trust me,” Curtis says. “If there was a way, I’d be out of here already.”

I chime in. “It’s way too dangerous to go out there in the dark. There’s crevasses everywhere.”

Heather sits reluctantly back down. Silence again. Brent empties the last of the whiskey into his glass and knocks it back. I pick up an overturned beer bottle. There’s beer all over the table but I’ll worry about that later.

Heather grips Dale’s hand so tightly her knuckles turn white. “Why would anyone want to do this?”

Nobody seems to want to state the obvious.

“It’s about Saskia, isn’t it?” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Someone thinks one of us killed her. Maybe they don’t know for certain, or they’d go to the police, but they suspect, so they’ve brought us here to try to flush the killer out.”

I hope my guilt doesn’t show on my face.

It’s okay. Nobody knows what you did.

I don’t know what scares me more: the prospect of being found out, or the possibility that Saskia didn’t die the way I imagined but at the hands of one of these four.

From the way everyone’s looking at each other, they’re all wondering the same thing.

Did you kill Saskia?