There’s something about her story that I don’t quite buy. Heather came up to the midstation sometimes on her afternoons off, tottering about in her unsuitable shoes and sunning herself on the sun deck, but I never saw her on the glacier. For one thing, she didn’t dress for it. A leather jacket doesn’t cut it in minus twenty.

Brent drains his coffee and wanders over to the bar.

Heather continues. “Saskia was in the bubble in front of us and we got in an argument at the top.”

“About . . . ?”

“The fight in Glow Bar. She stormed off. Then Curtis turned up looking for her, complaining about how he’d wrecked his shoulder because of her.” Her eyes flit to the doorway as though she’s scared Curtis will catch her talking about him. “I tell you, he was scary mad. I’ve never seen him so mad.”

“Right.” This is a different version of events than the one I heard from Curtis ten years ago. And it doesn’t paint Curtis in a good light.

“Know what he said?” Heather checks the doorway again and lowers her voice to a whisper. “When I find her, I’m going to bloody kill her.”

CHAPTER 26

TEN YEARS AGO

The gym smells of sweat and deodorant. It’s busy tonight. I spot the Aussie girl that Curtis was talking to at the pipe and head to the vacant leg-press machine beside her.

She must be sponsored by Roxy, because all her clothing carries their heart-shaped logo. I check how much she’s pressing—100 kilos—and set myself up with 120. She flashes me a smile as I sit down.

Curtis is doing pull-ups opposite, T-shirt lifting to reveal toned abs. He swings down and drapes himself over an empty machine next to the Aussie girl. “Did you meet Jacinta, Milla?”

“No,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“You ripped in the pipe earlier,” she says.

“So did you.” She’s a way better rider than I am. I’ll check her out next time I’m online because I want to know where she is in the rankings.

“I love your hair,” she adds.

Curtis sits there while we do leg presses. I can tell from his body language that he likes her. And I get the attraction; she’s pale and leggy, like a young Nicole Kidman, and—much as I hate to admit it—she seems really nice.

When she adds another twenty K, I hop off my seat and add another fifty. My quads are going to hurt tomorrow because I’m leg-pressing nearly three times my own body weight. Five . . . six . . . Curtis raises an eyebrow. I think he knows exactly what I’m doing. Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . My legs are shaking but I manage the last one and pause to mop my forehead.