Blue sky; pristine white powder. A familiar excitement stirs, despite my lack of sleep. In the daylight, things don’t seem so bad. Whether I find my phone or not, I’m going to get out of here today. If the cable car’s not running, it’s no big deal—we can snowboard down. Either way, I hope I get the chance to carve up some of that powder before we leave.

The corridor smells of stale woodsmoke. Curtis is in the kitchen, crouched in front of the impressive-looking coffee machine, wearing the dark jeans he had on yesterday and a high-tech purple Sparks fleece with zips everywhere. The mark on his temple has turned purple, too. I want to tell him to put ice on it, because it looks sore, but I’m guessing he’d rather not be reminded of it.

“What’s the time?” I ask.

He checks his watch. “Seven twenty.”

“It’s so weird not knowing what time it is.”

The coffee machine peeps. Curtis swears.

“Is it acting up?” I say.

“It’s all right. I’m on it.”

“Still no staff?”

“No.” Curtis presses more buttons. It peeps again and he swears some more.

“You’re cheery this morning. Did you get some sleep?”

“Not much.”

I peer over his shoulder. “It’s run out of beans.”

“How do you know?”

“Brains.” More like the fact that I’ve worked at half the cafés in Sheffield.

He turns, furious. I didn’t realize he was so wound up or I wouldn’t have teased him like that. I busy myself searching for coffee beans. I’m used to dealing with large and cranky males and know enough to keep my mouth shut.

Curtis always had to be in control of everything, so it makes sense that he’s finding this hard. The perfume and that hunk of hair in his bed have really gotten to him.

Or is there a more sinister reason for his anger? He killed his sister and he’s scared of being found out. Then again, he could be the mastermind behind this, the one who brought us here to solve the mystery of his sister’s disappearance. His previous affection for me has turned to hate and what I saw just then was his mask slipping.

I check the cupboard above the sink.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just want a damn coffee.”

I lift down a huge jar of beans. “Here we go. Cappuccino okay?”

“I’ll do it.” He tries to take it.

“I’ve used this kind of machine before.”

“I was handling it.”

I should probably back down but I hate backing down. “You won’t know how.”