Never mind. We’ll make our own way down. On snowboards until the snow runs out, then on foot. It’ll be a fair walk because the snow line was pretty high up, but we should be able to do it in half a day.

Footsteps on the stairs behind me. It’s Dale. Game-show-host Dale, who smells of expensive aftershave and looks like he reads GQ these days, rather than Whitelines, in his smart jeans and charcoal knit—possibly cashmere—although the hood of his snowboard jacket is ripped from the fight yesterday and he has the beginnings of a black eye.

He glances around. “Still locked up?”

“Yep.” I step around him to return upstairs.

He catches my right arm. “Did you invite us here, Milla?”

“No.” I wriggle my arm but he has a strong grip.

“So why does my wife say you did?”

There’s something about this place. It’s as though the wildness of these mountains is creeping into us. Or maybe it’s just that we’re so far from the rest of civilization. We’re unpoliced up here.

“I don’t know. Let go of me.”

If anything, his grip grows tighter. “Give me an answer first.”

My heart is thumping, but in situations like this, you can’t show fear. “I could hurt you,” I say. Offense is the best defense—according to my dad and brother at least.

He doesn’t even blink. “I could hurt you more.”

As we square off I search for a trace of the Dale I remember—the glimpse of a tattoo; holes in his ears and lip from where his piercings used to go. But there’s nothing. It’s as though he never existed.

CHAPTER 20

TEN YEARS AGO

Saskia hasn’t changed out of her snowboard trousers. She rustles about, making juice. Odette and I lean against the counter. None of us wanted to drink, so it looks like our girls’ night will be a tame one. Fine by me.

“What are you putting in it?” I ask.

Saskia turns to me with laughing eyes. “Beetroot, carrot, spinach, and lemon.”

Does she sense it makes me nervous when she hands me drinks? I suspect she does. She’s bought me coffees on the mountain a few times now. My budget doesn’t extend to buying hot drinks, so I haven’t returned the favor, but she doesn’t seem to care. Maybe it’s her way of making up for the Le Rocher Open.

She dumps a scoop of beige powder into the blender. “And maca.”

I study the container.

“Supposed to help muscle recovery,” she says. “Curtis got me onto it.”

I sniff it. “Does it taste like shit?”

Odette dips her finger in. She’s wearing a wrist brace from her fall a few days ago. “It’s not too bad. Try it.”

I taste it. “Yuck.”

Saskia buzzes the juice. “You won’t notice it in here.”