‘I’ll go in and change.’

Less than two minutes later Valentine had changed her T-shirt for a neon-green top, her jogging bottoms for a skirt that came half-way down her thigh, she had done her hair up into a skilfully shapeless chignon, and put make up on her lips and eyes.

‘I’m going to see the others.’

She had brushed shoulders with death, and clearly she couldn’t care less. For her, death was probably just an old lady you had to say hello to politely when you bumped into her; but an old lady she would never see again. At fifteen, you’re immortal.

‘Who are the others?’

‘Tahir, Nils, Justin. Do you want to see their IDs?’

Clotilde didn’t reply. Once again, she struggled to suppress the feeling, the sense of danger lurking around them.

Franck had poured himself a Pietra. He seemed marked by the hours he had spent in the hospital. But Clotilde couldn’t feel genuine compassion for him. She still hadn’t digested the veiled inferences he was making on the phone. After all, he didn’t have a monopoly on anxiety, and her stomach had plummeted just as much as Franck’s when she’d heard about Valou’s accident. She too had worried herself sick and was still struggling to calm herself down. What did he think?

Franck was playing Candy Crush, lining up the green, red and blue sweets, as he answered Clotilde’s questions in an offhand voice, as if he’d just come home from an exhausting day at work.

Yes, the carabiner had failed, no, he didn’t know why, apparently the equipment was worn, but nobody had noticed when they were checking, no, the instructor wasn’t under any suspicion, quite the contrary, his reaction had been outstanding, yes, they were all really sorry, but these things happen sometimes, no, he didn’t want to cause a fuss, to report them or take things further, yes, everything would be fine in the end, why didn’t they all get a good night’s sleep and move on.

The words still rattled around in Clotilde’s head.

Irresponsible. You have no idea. Where were you?

This time, after throwing his knives, Franck had left them there; once the surge of emotion had passed, he hadn’t uttered a word of apology. She had held back her tears. She remembered the phrase she had read somewhere: A woman who weeps in front of her lover gets everything she wants from him; a woman who weeps in front of a man who no longer loves her is lost.

She hesitated, then launched in.

‘Are they sure it was an accident?’

Franck suddenly sent his sweets, which were supposed to be lined up in threes, flying in a shower of confetti. His whole attitude, from the tone of his voice to the expression on his face, changed from weariness to aggression in the blink of an eye.