I finger the sharp corners of the pass in my pocket. If I tell them, Dale will take it as conclusive evidence that Curtis killed his sister, and Heather will side with her husband. Brent has tried to stay neutral so far, but I sense he’s reached the breaking point and this could well sway him. And I’ll be caught in the middle.

I consider Curtis’s story. What if it was planted on him, like he said? To make us turn on each other? Exactly like the Icebreaker itself.

“Are you looking at him?” Dale says suddenly.

Heather splutters. “What? No.”

Dale grips her by her upper arms. I step over to them. Brent starts in our direction, too.

Dale raises his chin. “Don’t even think of it,” he tells Brent.

“I wasn’t looking at anyone,” Heather says in a tiny voice.

“Back off,” I tell Dale. Talk about possessive. He never used to be this wound up.

Nor did Curtis and Brent. A dangerous energy buzzes in the room. It really is as though the savageness of the terrain outside is infecting us.

I slide my hand from my pocket. I’m going to keep quiet about Saskia’s pass for now because I can’t risk starting another brawl. We need to keep calm and work together to get safely down from here.

Curtis checks his watch. “We need to get going so we’re down before dark.”

“What about the lift shack at the top of the tow lift?” Dale says. “Might be a radio up there.”

“I doubt it,” Curtis says. “Not when they’ve removed the ones down here.”

“Yeah, but they might not have bothered to take that one. It’ll only take us a few minutes to check.”

“We haven’t got a few minutes,” Curtis snaps. “We don’t know how long it’s going to take to get your wife down the black run.”

Dale shoots Heather a poisonous look.

She stares down at her feet. Right now, it’s hard to say who she seems more scared of, Curtis or her own husband.

“Look,” I say. “If it’s any easier for you, Heather, I’ll lend you my snowboard and I’ll go on foot.”

She has no concept of how big a deal this is to me. I’ve just passed up the first chance I’ve had to snowboard in ten years. But the poor girl looks like she’s about to puke on her boots.

“Thanks, Milla,” Dale mutters.

I’m not doing it for you, arsehole. I’m doing it for her.

But Heather wraps her arms around her chest. “I don’t remember how to do it. It’s ten years since I was on a board and I was never any good even then.”

The rest of us exchange looks. The prospect of guiding a nervous beginner down a rock-riddled black run is none too appealing.