It’s a good sign that he’s asking me this, isn’t it? It means I guessed wrong earlier and he’s not the one who killed her.

Or is he continuing his act to throw me off his scent?

“I see three possibilities,” I say carefully. “She had an accident, someone killed her, or she committed suicide.”

Pain furrows his face. “But why would she do that?”

I swallow. “I don’t know. Either way, I think she’s still up here, under the ice.”

Curtis studies me for a long moment. “I like to think I can read you, Milla.”

“Saskia always could.”

His lips quirk. “Could she?”

“But I could never read her. Or you.”

His smile widens. “Hey, I said I could read you. I didn’t say I understand you.”

I think he’s talking about me choosing Brent over him. To my relief, he never asked me why, and I’ve never explained, because explaining would mean admitting what I felt for him.

And still feel. That smile gives me jitters in my stomach. It makes me want to cast the duvet aside and climb astride his lap. Except I have no idea where I stand with him.

Especially not now that we have the secrets from the Icebreaker hanging over us.

He seems a lot calmer than he was this evening, so I’m going to ask him about them. He must have been thinking about them. Unless he wrote them, that is. “Are you taking the Icebreaker seriously?”

His demeanor changes. “Someone’s certainly gone to a lot of effort.”

“But who?”

“God, this bunk is uncomfortable.” He lifts his pillow and stuffs it behind his back. “I don’t know. But I know this. Whoever killed Saskia—if someone killed her—isn’t responsible for the Icebreaker.”

It makes sense. If they killed her, they would hardly want to advertise it.

He drums his fingers on the mattress. “But why would someone do this? Summon us all here, strand us, and force us to revisit that winter. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“To bring the killer to justice, why else?” Of course, the obvious conclusion is Curtis set it up, like Brent said. His family is desperate to know what happened to her, plus they have the financial means to do it.

“What about blackmail?” he says, adjusting the pillow behind his back. “Someone suspects one of us killed her and they’re trying to get money out of us.”

“Okay . . . I hadn’t thought of that.” My feet are freezing. I bring my knees up to my chest so I can tuck them under the duvet.

And realize Curtis’s blue eyes watch my every move.

“You think I set this up,” I say.

He smiles to soften the accusation. “Or Brent.”