He and Curtis are all kitted out in their snowboard gloves and goggles. The lock on the booth door is a decent one and Brent wasn’t able to pick it. They confer about the best way to break in.

The rest of us hang back. As soon as I get a chance, I’m going to slip away and search the dorms—for our phones or a clue about who’s doing this.

The wind has picked up. The little orange bubbles creak as they sway back and forth. I don’t hold out much hope for the men getting the lift running. Ski lifts must have decent security these days, and whoever brought us here must have guessed we’d try to access the booth.

Brent picks up his snowboard. “Let’s try this.”

Dale and Heather are farther down the platform, talking in low voices. Another argument, from the sounds of it. He sees me looking and shushes her.

“Back in a minute. I’m going to the bathroom.” I race upstairs and down the corridor into Dale and Heather’s dorm.

Dale has packed a lot lighter than Heather, so I’ll start with him. I rummage through his snowboard bag. Snowboard trousers, gloves, goggles, sweaters in muted shades, and cargo pants. Mostly his old sponsors’ brands and all newish. Underwear—a Calvin Klein man these days, I see. The old Dale would never have splashed out on designer boxers. He’d have saved his money for snowboarding. A Ziploc bag of screws, a couple of board tools. Nothing personal. No phones.

I check under the pillows and mattresses, and pat down the duvets of all four bunks. Have to be quick. The wardrobe is empty. Heather’s suitcase lies open on the floor. Clothes galore—mostly black and expensive looking, all neatly folded. I press the pile, feeling for the hard edges of a phone. Nope.

There’s a jumble of lacy underwear in one corner. It’s weird to see another girl’s underwear and I can’t resist picking a couple of pieces out. A tiny black gauze G-string and a matching bra that’s little more than nipple covers with straps.

I stuff them back in. Bathroom next. Among the makeup in Heather’s cosmetics bag are pale blue pills in a foil packet. Again, I have the urge to look closer but I don’t have long, so I zip it up and check Dale’s sponge bag. Shit—someone’s coming!

I dive into the shower cubicle and pull the curtain across just as the door creaks open.

“Now go wash your face.” Dale’s voice. “And pull yourself together.”

Heather’s crying. “We’re never going to get out of here. This is all your fault. You should never have taken her credit card.”

Whose credit card? Mine? Have they been in my dorm?