Stop! reads a sign. The game is on. Phones must be left in the basket.

I let out my breath. A game. Some kind of quiz, maybe, about snowboarding or what we remember about each other. Something to get us talking about old times. And it’s exactly Curtis’s style, telling us what to do like this, not wanting any outside distractions from whatever he has planned. I lower my phone into the basket. Except . . .

The sign snags my attention again. The game is on. I once said those words to— No. It’s a common enough phrase. It doesn’t mean anything. I dump my phone on top of the four already there and go inside.

The function room juts out over the mountains, the carpet a thick white pile to mirror the snow outside, the furniture white and silver and no doubt stupidly expensive. Upholstered satin chairs; tables of glass and chrome. The opulence is in stark contrast to the rustic furnishings below. It even smells different. Gone is the fug of woodsmoke, replaced by the scent of fresh paint.

The entire back wall is windows, white velvet curtains tied back with a sash. The view must be spectacular in the daytime, but for now it’s total blackness. Not a light in sight. Eerie in our current situation, but otherwise a beautiful venue for a wedding.

If you can overlook how many lives this glacier has claimed.

And how many bodies it still holds.

Don’t think of that.

It’s so cold in here that I can see my breath. Damp, too. The room probably hasn’t been used for months. The others all have drinks. A lone beer sits on a nearby silver tray—Kronenbourg 1664. The glass is icy against my palm. I used to love these little bottles of French beer, sweet and fizzy. Haven’t drunk it since the last time I was here.

It’s just the five of us still. The staff must be along the corridor. Curtis keeps looking at the door. What does he have planned?

Heather’s French-manicured nails curl over my lower arm. “Did you see the game?”

“What game?”

She tows me across the carpet to a tall wooden box sitting on a low table. Beside it are pens, good-quality cream envelopes, and cards. And a printed, laminated sheet. Icebreaker. The script is ornate, the sort you see on the order of service at funerals.

And weddings, I remind myself quickly.

Write a secret, something about yourself that none of the others will know. Post it in the box. Draw the envelopes out, one by one, and guess who wrote what.