One by One - Ruth Ware Page 0,53

if his weight can shut out the reality of what we left behind us, and he stares at me with an expression of horror.

“Fuck,” he says. And I can’t think of anything to say in reply. Because what else is there to say? This is… this is bad. This is beyond bad. And I can’t make sense of it.

“Danny, what the hell is going on?”

“I have no fucking clue, mate. Did he commit suicide?”

“Maybe.” I realize how little we know about these people—any of them. After all, Elliot could have been under any kind of pressure, and Danny and I would never have known. But that’s the thing—we don’t know. We have no idea what is happening here.

I put my hands to my head as if I can forcibly keep it together with the pressure of flesh on bone. Oh God, it feels like everything is falling apart.

“He wasn’t hurt,” I say, trying to figure it out as I speak. “I mean, I couldn’t see any physical injuries, it didn’t look like anyone had attacked him. Which means… I suppose he must have taken something. Don’t you think?”

“Drugs? Injectables? Pills?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Holy fuck. Danny, what do we do?” The reality—if you can call it that—of our predicament is sinking in. We are stuck here—very stuck, in my case, with my wrenched ankle—in a chalet with a group of people we barely know, and two of them have died in the last twenty-four hours. Eva—Eva’s death was a tragic accident. One of those horrible, awful lightning strikes that can occur in even the most tranquil places. But Elliot—surely there is no way his death can be anything but murder or suicide. A brain aneurism—a massive stroke—a heart attack—any of those might kill near enough instantly. But they don’t explain the smashed-up computer.

“Was he definitely dead?” Danny asks.

“Definitely.” I can’t suppress a shudder as I think of it.

“Are you sure?” Danny is grasping at straws, and I think he knows it, but he can’t stop himself asking. “Are you absolutely certain, mate?”

“Danny, I may have dropped out of med school without a degree, but I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know one. I promise you, he was dead. Dilated pupils, absent pulse, the works.” I don’t mention the puddle of piss under the chair. Danny doesn’t need to know about that.

“But how?” Danny says. He looks like he might be sick. “How the fuck did someone get to him, if that’s what happened? Something in the coffee?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Should we go and, you know… check?”

“I don’t know,” I say again, more forcefully this time. My head is spinning, trying to figure out the right course of action. “The police will want to—I mean, we shouldn’t disturb the scene. But maybe if we knew what it was—”

I look down at the key in my hand and make up my mind.

“We’ll go and check. We won’t touch anything, we’ll just look.”

Danny nods, and together we make our way quietly up the service stairs to the first floor, trying not to let the others see where we’re heading.

We don’t discuss our decision to stick together, but I know we are both thinking the same thing. If Elliot didn’t commit suicide, then someone in this group is a murderer. And that is a very scary idea indeed. Could one of those sleek, monied hipsters downstairs really have murdered someone? I try to imagine gentle Tiger with her slim hands around Elliot’s neck, or Topher whacking him with an empty bottle of whiskey—and I feel suddenly sick.

The staff key grates in Elliot’s locked door and then turns, and Danny and I tiptoe inside the room. It is very cold, and it smells of spilled coffee, and something else, more acrid: that stench of urine, which I recognize from my hospital days.

Danny hangs back, by the door, as if he can’t bring himself to come any closer to Elliot’s body. So it’s clearly up to me. I swallow. Very, very cautiously, trying not to disturb anything, I move forward towards the desk. Elliot is still lying in the same slumped, unnatural position, his face in the puddle of cold black coffee. I already moved him slightly to check for signs of life, but I want to avoid disturbing the scene any further. So without touching him, or anything else, I lean over and try to peer inside the empty, fallen cup. It’s difficult, without moving it; the angle is all wrong. I go