One by One(88)

As I struggle into someone’s ski jacket—Elliot’s, I think, judging by the size—I remember Liz’s self-pitying whine as she told me about everything that had happened. And the thing is, I could almost have bought it. I don’t know for sure what happened on that balcony—but I could believe that part of it, the frightened girl, the desperate shove. And I could believe, too, her cornered fear as she realized that Eva had her trapped—and her terrified reaction.

But Elliot—no. And most of all Ani. Poor little Ani, killed as she slept for nothing more than having seen something Liz didn’t want her to see.

Whatever Liz thinks about Eva, and that unnamed investor, and maybe even Elliot—Ani, out of everyone, didn’t deserve this. She couldn’t have.

Only a monster could have killed Ani.

It’s Ani’s face that I see before me now as I pull on wet ski socks, and search around for mittens.

Ani’s face, speckled with the scarlet dots that give the lie to Liz’s story.

Because Liz says that she never wanted Ani to die—but I know that’s not true. Ani must have fought. She fought for every breath, so hard that blood vessels broke in her skin.

And Liz stood there, and pressed the pillow down over her face, all that long, long time.

You have to want someone to die to kill them by suffocation. You have to want it a lot.

It’s Ani I’m thinking of as I open up my ski boot as wide as it will go. Ani, as I shove my foot inside, gritting my teeth as the pain in my ankle flares suddenly, bright and hot.

My breath is whimpering between my teeth, little sobs of pain coming in spite of the need for silence as I force my foot around the curve of the boot, hearing the bones in my feet click and grind in protest, feeling the swollen flesh squeezing against the hard plastic shell. But I have to do this. I have to.

Ani. Ani. Ani.

And then with a crunch, my foot slides into place. I’m sweating and shaking with the pain, cold perspiration on my upper lip. But my foot is in. And, miraculously, when I try to stand, the pain isn’t as bad as I thought it would be; the top of the boot is tight enough that I’m taking some of my weight on my shin rather than my ankle. I ratchet the boot clips as tight as I can, praying that the support will keep the joint stable for long enough to make it down the valley. If I have broken a bone, I may end up lame for good after this—but it’s better than dead.

Hastily, I shove my other foot into its boot and clip it up.

And then I hear a noise from the stairs.

My heart seems to stop. It’s Liz coming down the spiral staircase.

For a second I freeze. I have everything I need—but can I get out the back entrance? The ski door faces the same way as the swimming pool, and it will have been blocked by the avalanche.

It opens inwards. At least… I’m pretty certain it does. I press my hands to my temples, trying to remember. Does it? If it opens outwards I’m screwed, regardless. But I’m sure it opens inwards. The question is whether I can dig my way out.

And then my eyes go to the narrow little window above the ski lockers. It’s letter box–shaped, and although it’s certainly long enough, it’s probably only twelve inches high, less when you take into account the frame and the hinges. But it might be my best bet.

Wincing at every sound, I climb up onto the wooden bench, and from there I lean over the ski lockers and open the window. A freezing blast scours my face, but I can see that the aperture isn’t blocked—the snow obscuring the glass was just drifting flakes sticking to the pane. There is a drift almost up to the top of the lockers—but that will cushion my fall.

I push my skis out first, one by one, listening as they tip into the soft snow with a flump. Then my poles. I pull on the borrowed mittens, and grab a helmet at random from the rack. It fits, thank God, because I don’t have time to pick and choose. And then I climb up to lie flat along the top of the lockers. They rock precariously—but only for a moment.

I feel sick with nerves. From somewhere in the chalet I hear a cry of surprise—and then a shout of “Erin?… Erin, where are you?”

Liz has discovered that I’m gone.

I slide my legs out first. I am apprehensive about falling onto my bad ankle, but the alternative is dropping face-first into the snow, and I don’t fancy that either. Okay, I’m wearing a helmet, but the fall could still break my neck, or if the drift is deep enough, I might plunge in vertically and suffocate before I could dig myself out. Feet first is safer.

It’s a squeeze, but I am managing. One boot, sideways, my good leg first, then the other. The weight of the boot hanging off my bad ankle makes me gasp, but it’s bearable, just.

And then the locker room door opens.

I can’t see anything at first because she’s holding a torch—Elliot’s phone, I think—and it’s shining full in my face. But I can see the shape of a figure in the doorway, and I know who it is before she runs towards me with a snarl of anger that sounds more animal than human.

I feel her hands grappling my arms, snatching, scratching, but her nails slide off the thick, smooth fabric, and there is nothing for her to catch hold off. I force my bum through the narrow gap, and then my body weight does the rest, dragging me after—until I stick, with a sickening jolt.

For a split second I can’t work out what’s happened. Has Liz shut the window? Has she grabbed my helmet? Then I realize.