by Ruth Ware
She is right, and Rik knows it. He sinks back in his seat, and shrugs slightly feebly.
“It’s a fact,” he says, but not like he’s arguing with her, just like he’s trying to backtrack on his own insensitivity. “That’s all I was saying.”
And the thing is, he’s right. It is a fact, and an important one to the people who are losing their money, and the employees who may soon be losing their jobs when Snoop’s bubble bursts. But Tiger is right too. It’s a fact that pales into nothing compared to the loss of their colleagues.
“What was the second thing?” Miranda says. Her interjection, into the uneasy silence after Tiger’s outburst, is unexpected, and Topher looks nonplussed for a moment. “A couple of bits of news, you said,” she prompts. “What was the other thing?”
“Oh.” Topher looks… I don’t know. Sickened, almost. He rubs his face. “I got a letter. I mean an email. From Arnaud.”
Arnaud? Danny glances at me, frowning, and then I remember. “Eva’s husband,” I whisper, and Danny’s expression changes to comprehension and unease.
“Has he heard?” Rik says. He looks a little sick. Topher nods.
“The police told him. They haven’t given him the full picture, just the basic facts, that she’s been involved in a fatal skiing accident. Anyway, he sent me a file.”
“A file?” Miranda’s expression is confused. She’s not the only one. “About Eva?”
“A folder. About lots of people. Letters. Photos. Videos. Eva asked him to send it all to me in the event of her death. Arnaud hasn’t seen any of it, it was password protected, but I’ve been through it and… there’s this one video…” He runs his hand through his mussed blond hair, tousling it, but it no longer looks like it’s sticking up in a way that’s been artfully tweaked into place, it just looks like a mess. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with it, you know? Eva’s dumped it in my lap, and the rest of it’s bad enough but this—this thing—I feel like it’s too much for one person.”
He looks… the word comes to me. He looks lost.
“You want us to watch it too?” Rik says. “All of us?”
His glance flickers at me and Danny. He doesn’t say it, but the implication is clear—is this private Snoop stuff? But to my surprise, Topher nods.
“All of you. It concerns everyone here.”
Beside me, Danny is frowning, and I know how he feels. Something is about to be dumped onto us—and I don’t understand what. Why is this to do with me and Danny? Did Eva send something to her husband before her death?
Topher pulls open his MacBook, clicks a link, and taps in a password. Then he angles the screen towards the rest of the table, and, with a glance at the door to the kitchen to check the waitress isn’t hovering, he presses play.
For a minute it’s hard to make out what I’m seeing. It seems to be footage from a mobile phone, but it’s nighttime, and the resolution is grainy and poor. It looks like a garden—or no, a balcony, because I can see rooftops beyond. A man and a woman are standing there, talking, but although I can hear the breathing of the person filming, I can’t hear anything from the couple talking on the balcony, which makes me think they are being filmed from inside, through glass.
The woman is leaning against the opposite wall, and her face is in shadow, making it impossible to tell who she is, but there is something about her stance that looks both familiar, and more than a little tipsy. She is steadying herself with a hand on the wall, and when the man leans in, offering her more champagne, the glass she holds out is definitely swaying.
The man, I don’t recognize. I’m sure of that. He is standing with his back to the balcony parapet, so that I can only see his profile, but it’s no one I know. He’s handsome, in an obvious kind of way, and there is something a little patronizing about his expression, like he’s enjoying talking down to this young woman in front of him, enjoying her homage. He lifts his glass to his lips and drains his drink, and then says something to the woman.
The woman shakes her head. She makes as if to move away, but the man puts his arm up on the wall over her head, blocking her in. She is hemmed in by his body on one side, and the wall of the house on the other. My heart begins beating faster for her. I know what is happening. I have been this woman. I know her panic. I know how much she will want to escape.
And then, very deliberately, he puts his hand on her breast.
I am screaming at her internally to kick his shins, knee him in the balls, get away.
But I have realized with a sinking feeling that I know this woman. And I know what she is about to do.
She squirms to one side trying to get out from under his grasp, but he blocks her, putting his other hand there to prevent her escape, and now he leans in, too close for me to see what he’s doing, though I can imagine, I can imagine all too well. My heart is racing now, sickeningly fast. Why isn’t the person holding the phone going to help?
The shove, when it comes, is no surprise to me, even though there is an audible gasp from the person filming, and from a few of the viewers in the dining room.
On screen, the man staggers back, against the low barrier of the balcony, winded. And then the next few seconds unfold so fast I can hardly make out what happens.
The woman steps towards him, and for a second I think she is about to help him up. But she doesn’t. She pushes him again. And this time his legs go up, his glass slips from his hand, his arms windmill—and he is gone.
It’s only when the woman turns to walk away that we see her face.
It’s completely calm.
It is, of course, Liz.
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to: Offline
Snoopscribers: 160
There is complete silence around the table as Topher closes his laptop and puts it away. Carl is the first to speak.
“What the fuck did we just watch?”
“I think…” It’s Miranda, speaking very slowly, her face drained of color. “I think… we just watched Liz murder someone.”
“It’s why Eva was killed,” Topher says, and his voice is gravelly. “It must be, surely? Liz must have known she knew.”
“But—that makes no sense,” Miranda says, bewildered. “Why kill Eva when she knew she had footage?”
“I’m guessing she didn’t know about the footage,” Topher says. He looks indescribably weary, his face graven with the lines of a man ten years older than his actual age.
“She didn’t,” I say. My words drop into their silence like stones into a well, and they all turn to look at me, astonished.
“You knew about this?” Miranda says, and, very reluctantly, I nod.
“Yes, I knew. Liz confessed to me before—” I stop, I can’t bring myself to say what happened, even though I’ve already been through it with the police: the endless night, the pills in the kettle, that nightmarish chase in the darkness, the horror of her lonely death. “Before I ran,” I end, lamely.
“She fucking killed a man in cold blood,” Carl says, and his voice is blank with shock.
“He assaulted her,” Miranda says stiffly, but I don’t listen to the argument that ensues. I am too busy trying to figure out something else.
Who was filming? And why?
There is only one explanation—it must have been Eva. She was the only other person there that night, by Liz’s account. And she had the footage. She must have been the person hiding inside the flat, filming through the closed window. It’s the only explanation that makes sense, and it ties in with Liz’s account of the timings, Eva making an excuse to leave and go to the bathroom, right before it happened.
But… I am putting two and two together as the argument rages around me, Miranda’s shrill voice rising over Carl’s booming tones. Why would Eva be filming? Unless she knew, or at least had a very good idea, that Liz was going to be assaulted.
And then I remember Liz’s words to me, repeating Eva. Besides, Norland likes her type. He likes them young.
; Did… did Eva send Liz in there, knowing Norland would likely make a pass, knowing Liz would fight him off and then… what?
The pieces click into place, with a horrible finality.
Then Eva would have video of a man, a potential investor, sexually assaulting her employee.
She would have him where she wanted him.
Eva is a blackmailer—I knew that already. But somehow, this cruel, calculated setup is infinitely worse than anything I had imagined.
She sent Liz in there like a lamb to the slaughter. What she didn’t know was that Liz was no lamb.
It’s like Liz said, everyone at Snoop underestimated her.
Well, that was a mistake. And Eva’s mistake killed her. And it killed Norland too. And now it’s killed Liz.
“She knew.” I say it quietly, and at first they don’t hear me, and the argument carries on over my head, but then Tiger says, “What did you say, Erin?”
“She knew.” When I repeat it, the others fall quiet, so that my words drop into the sudden silence like little bombs.
“Who? Liz?”
“Eva. She knew that guy would probably go for Liz. That’s why she was filming. She told you, Rik, do you remember? Norland likes her type. He likes them young.”
Rik says nothing, but the expression on his face says more than any speech. He remembers. He remembers perfectly. And he understands. Still, I spell it out for the others.
“She dressed Liz up, and she took her up to his flat, knowing that Norland would quite likely make a pass at her and Liz would panic. And she would have it all on film.”
“Fuuuck.” It’s Carl who speaks, and his face is ashen. “She told me once, when I asked her how she got so good at persuading investors. She said everyone has a button, you just have to find it, and then you press it as hard as you can, even if they squeal.”
“That film was supposed to be her button,” I say. “Only it didn’t turn out how she planned.”
“And all this time,” Tiger says slowly. “All this time she was holding it over Liz’s head. What do we do?”
“What can we do?” It’s Topher. He stands up, runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck, this is horrible—that fucking file. And it’s not just Liz. She had stuff on all sorts of people. It’s like a fucking time bomb.”
“Does Arnaud know?” Rik asks. Topher shakes his head.
“No, I haven’t told him what the folder contained. If this gets out, it’ll end Snoop. What do we do? A company built on blackmailing investors? We might have survived Eva’s death, even the revelations about Liz. But if this gets out, we could all be going down.” He looks across the table at Rik. “I mean literally going down. Like, you and me could be looking at prison time. How do we prove we didn’t know about this?”
“We can’t bury this!” Tiger’s voice is horrified. “Topher, what are you suggesting? That we pretend we never saw this?”
“I’m just saying—” Topher’s voice is desperate; he runs his hands through his tow-colored hair again, looking half crazed now. “I’m just saying, what good would it do to drag all of this out? Eva’s dead. Liz is dead. Norland is dead. No one can get brought to justice. All we can do is hurt Arnaud and Radisson.”
“And Snoop,” Tiger says accusingly. “That’s what you really mean, isn’t it? This isn’t about Arnaud, this is about protecting your position.” Her usually tranquil voice has grown high with anger and distress. “What about Liz?”
“Liz is a murderer!” Topher cries.
“She’s a victim!”
“She’s a fucking psychopath,” Carl puts in, matter-of-factly. “Was, I mean.”
There is silence, while we all consider this.
Because here’s the thing. They are all right. Liz was a victim. And just like she said, she never wanted any of this. She was just a poor, confused kid, in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I can’t forget that second, extra push. And I can’t forget little, trusting Ani. Perhaps Liz was both.
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to: The Verve / Bitter Sweet Symphony
Snoopers: 43
Snoopscribers: 164
It’s still not resolved when dinner breaks up, and I climb awkwardly up the steep stairs to my room, leaving the voices of the others still raised in angry discussion and circular argument. It’s a relief in fact to stick my headphones in and slump back on the bed with my ankle raised, thinking of nothing but the music in my head.
I barely hear the knock at the door, but something makes me pull out one earbud, and it comes again, a brisk rap-rap.
With a sigh, I swing my legs off the bed and hobble to the floor.
It’s Danny. And he’s holding a crutch.
“You left this, mate.”
“Oh, of course.” I smack my hand to my forehead. “I’m such an idiot. Thanks.” He hands it over and there’s a moment’s awkward silence. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, waving a hand at my slightly meager room. “I know it’s not exactly the Ritz, but I’m not sure I can face sitting with the others downstairs.”
Slightly to my surprise, Danny shakes his head.
“Nah. I’m… well, I’m actually gonna go out. For a drink.”
“With who?” I’m surprised. I’m even more surprised when Danny blushes.
“Eric. Landlady’s son. He runs the bar up the road, you know, the one with the brass counter on the corner, the Petit Coin? Said… you know. ‘Come in for a drink after supper.’ ”
“Danny!” I can’t stop a smile spreading across my face. “That’s awesome. Is he… ?”
Danny raises one eyebrow, drawing out the silence, making me blush, and then he puts me out of my discomfort.
“If you mean, does he like piña coladas, sources say yes.”
“Ha. Well. Go you.”
“You sure? I mean, you could come…” He trails off, but I’m laughing and shaking my head.
“No. No, thanks. No piña coladas for me, I’m going to have an early night.”
“Okay. Good plan, Batman.” He pauses, but he still doesn’t leave. He just stands there, frowning down at his feet, tracing a pattern on the lurid carpet with his toe. “Fucking weird, wasn’t it?”
“All the stuff with the film? Yeah. What do you think they’ll do?”
“Fuck knows. I’ve been wondering if we should go to the police ourselves, but I dunno if there’s much point.”
I’ve been wondering the same thing, but I don’t have any answers either, and in the end I just shrug.
Danny turns as if he’s about to go, and I’m just about to close the door when he swings back as if he’s thought better of something. He leans in, and I think he’s going to whisper something in my ear, but instead, rather sweetly, and to my surprise, he gives me a kiss. His lips are full and soft against my cheekbone.
“Love you, mate,” he says. I put my arms around him, and squeeze.
“Love you too, Danny. Now go. You’ve got piña coladas waiting.”
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to: Carole King / Tapestry
Snoopers: 28
Snoopscribers: 345
It’s just over three weeks later, and I’m sitting by the fire in the chalet, staring out of the tall window that overlooks the valley, listening to music and not thinking about anything in particular.
It’s still strange being in the chalet without working. Both Danny and I are still employed, technically, but I don’t know how much longer that can go on. After Perce-Neige was declared an official crime scene, its photo smeared all over the newspapers in half a dozen countries, it became very clear that even if the avalanche damage was repaired, it wasn’t going to be possible to use it for a holiday destination for this season at least.
The remaining bookings for the year have been either cancelled, or hastily reallocated to the other properties owned by the skiing company, and now Danny and I are simply waiting to find out what will happen, pacing the empty rooms, l
ooking at the place where Ani last sat, seeing Elliot’s ghost, spooning stew into his mouth, hearing the click-click-click of Eva’s heels on the parquet, and the slam of Liz’s bedroom door.
I can’t stay in this place. I know that now. But I can’t keep running.
The smells from the kitchen are making my stomach rumble, and I’m just thinking about heaving myself out of my chair and clumping through to ask Danny what time he will be serving up, when my Snoop stream goes dead. For a minute I’m not sure what’s happened. I wasn’t snooping on anyone else, so the feed shouldn’t cut out like that. It was my music.
I open up my phone to check on the app, but that’s when I notice. There’s an email notification. And it’s from Kate. The subject line is Some difficult news. My stomach gives a lurching jolt.
“Danny,” I shout, over the sound of pots and pans from the kitchen. There’s no reply, and I am about to get up and walk through to show him the notification when he appears in the doorway, holding his own phone.
“Did you get it too?” he asks, and I nod my head.
“Yeah. I think we’re both cc’d in. What does it say?”
“Open it and find out.”
My gut is churning as I open the email and scan down the contents. Difficult decision… not practical to reopen… eventual sale… sick pay… generous redundancy packages… four weeks’ notice.
“They’re closing the chalet.” I look up at Danny.
He nods solemnly.
“Yup. That’s about the size of it. Have to say, I’m not exactly surprised, what plonker’s gonna want to stay in a place where four guests got killed? I mean, it’s not exactly home sweet home, is it, even if you take the banjaxed swimming pool out of the equation. What are you gonna do?”
“What am I going to do?” I stare back at him. It’s stupid, because I’ve had three weeks to figure this out, but I’m no closer to deciding. Would I come back to work? Did I want to? Now it’s not even a question.
