is that you?
The precipice is in front of me—and expertly, I swerve to avoid it.
No, I type. I already told you—this is LIZ. Erin has just confessed everything—and she’s talking about killing herself. PLEASE COME NOW.
And then I press send.
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to: Offline
Snoopers: 5
Snoopscribers: 10
I lie completely still, listening as Liz peers into my cup and then stands over me, breathing heavily. Then she seems to make up her mind, and I hear the soft sound of her socked feet retreating into the lobby and the creak as she begins to make her way up the stairs.
I hold still for as long as I can bear, and then I sit upright, wincing at every rustle of fabric, every squeak of the sofa springs.
My arm and thigh are drenched with tea—but thank God, Liz didn’t seem to notice the spreading dampness on the sofa, only the empty cup.
The pills were in the kettle. I suspected as soon as I tasted the first gulp of tea—there was a strange, chemical acridity, and a very faint sweetness that must have come from the sugarcoating. And when I saw Liz putting the cup to her lips but only pretending to drink, I was certain of it. After that, I knew what I had to do. I had to pretend to drink too—taking advantage of the cover of darkness to slop the tea down my arm, onto the sofa, every time Liz turned away.
I had no way of knowing how long the pills should take to work—but I had to gamble on Liz’s ignorance too. She would have no way of knowing exactly what concentration I had taken, or how quickly it would take effect. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Whichever, she seemed to buy my performance of slipping into incoherence, and then unconsciousness.
Everything hinges now on whether she gave me enough to kill me. If she thinks she’s given me a fatal dose, I’ll be safe for a little while longer—at least until she comes back and notices I’m still breathing. But if she’s only given me enough to knock me out, she’ll be coming back very soon to finish me off. Will it be a pillow over the face like Ani, or a blow to the head, covered up as a fall down the stairs? Or something completely different?
Either way, I don’t want to find out. I have to get away, and the sooner the better.
Holding my breath, listening out for any sound from above, I hobble as swiftly and quietly as I can through the lobby, to the door behind the stairs, the one that leads to the ski lockers. My own ski clothes are up in my room, and I can’t risk trying to get to it, but my boots and skis are down in the storage lockers, and there should be enough spare clothing strewn around for me to put together an outfit that will at least keep me warm enough to ski in. I don’t have nearly enough layers to survive a night in the open, and I can’t walk on this ankle. I will have to get down to St. Antoine. But how? Skiing is the only option, and hope to God that the ski boot gives my ankle enough support to do it.
The door to the locker room opens with the gentle click, and I slide through, and close it with infinite care, my heart beating hard. It’s very dark inside, the moonlight filtering faintly through a window almost completely blocked with snow, but my eyes are used to the darkness, and I’m able to pick out the vague shapes of jackets and ski pants hanging from pegs, and boots drying on their once-heated poles. Hastily, my heart thumping in my throat, I yank on a pair of salopettes. It’s only when I look down at myself that I realize—they belonged to Ani. The thought that I’m literally stepping into a dead girl’s clothes makes my stomach lurch with guilt. But I can’t let myself get sentimental about this. Ani is gone—I can’t save her. But maybe I can bring her killer to justice.
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