It’s the opposite of when they’d first met. Back then, she was peaking; that’s how she thinks of it now. At the pinnacle of her twentysomething life.

She’d just bought her first apartment near the beach, the top floor of an old Victorian villa. Bijou, but high ceilings, views of a tiny square of sea.

Work was going well—she’d been promoted to detective sergeant, landed a big case, an important one, her mother was responding well to the first round of chemo. She thought she was on top of her grief for Sam, dealing with it, but now . . .

Her life has contracted. Closed down to become something that would have been unrecognizable to her a few years ago.

The doors are closing now, thick glass panels sliding together.

With a jolt, the funicular lurches upward, away from the station, accelerating.

Elin closes her eyes, but that only makes it worse. Every sound, every judder, is magnified behind her eyelids.

She opens her eyes to see the landscape flashing by: blurry streaks of snow-covered vineyards, chalets, shops.

Her head swims. “I want to get out.”

“What?” Will turns. He tries to mask it, but she can hear the frustration in his voice.

“I need to get out.”

The funicular pulls into a tunnel. They plunge into darkness, and a woman whoops.

Elin breathes in, slowly, carefully, but she can feel it coming—that sense of impending doom. All at once, her blood feels sticky moving through her, yet also like it’s rushing everywhere at once.

More breaths. Slower, as she’d taught herself. In for four, hold, then out for seven.

It’s not enough. Her throat contracts. Her breath is coming shallow now, fast. Her lungs are fighting, desperately trying to drag in oxygen.

“Your inhaler,” Will urges. “Where is it?”

Scrabbling in her pocket, she pulls it out, pushes down: good. She presses again, feels the rush of gas hit the back of her throat, reach her windpipe.

Within minutes, her breathing regulates.

But when her head clears, they’re there, in her mind’s eye.

Her brothers. Isaac. Sam.

Images, on loop.

She sees soft child faces, cheeks smattered with freckles. The same wide-set blue eyes, but while Isaac’s are cold, unnerving in their intensity, Sam’s fizz with energy, a spark that draws people in.

Elin blinks, unable to stop herself thinking about the last time she saw those eyes—vacant, lifeless, that spark . . . snuffed out.

She turns to the window, but can’t unsee the images from her past: Isaac, smiling at her; that familiar smirk. He holds up his hands, but the five splayed fingers are covered in blood.

Elin extends her hand, but she can’t reach him. She never can.

2

The hotel minibus is waiting in the small car park at the top of the funicular. It’s a sleek dark gray, the smoky tint of its windows smeared with snow.

Discreet silver lettering is etched on the bottom left of the door: le sommet. The letters are lowercase, understated, a fine, blocky font.

Elin allows herself to feel the first twinge of excitement. Up until this point, she’s been carelessly dismissive of the hotel in conversations with friends:

Pretentious.

Style over substance.

In truth, she’d carefully peeled off Isaac’s Post-it, taking pleasure in the pristine brochure beneath, running her fingers over the thick matte cardboard of the cover, savoring the novelty of each minimalist, photographed page.

She’d felt something strange, an unfamiliar mix of excitement and envy, a sense of having missed out on something indefinable, something she wasn’t even aware that she wanted.

In contrast, Will had been openly effusive, raving about the architecture, the design. He’d scoured the pages, then gone straight online to read more.

Over lamb Madras that night, he’d quoted details at her about the interior design: Influenced by Joseph Dirand . . . A new kind of minimalism, echoing the building’s history . . . Creating a narrative.

She’s always been amazed by Will’s capacity for absorbing this kind of intricate detail and fact. It makes her feel safe, somehow, secure that he has all the answers.

“Miss Warner? Mr. Riley?”

Elin turns. A tall, wiry man is striding toward them. He’s wearing a gray fleece embossed with the same silver lettering.

Le Sommet.

“That’s us.” Will smiles. There’s an awkward fumble as the man reaches for Elin’s suitcase at the same time as Will, before Will extracts himself.

“Trip okay?” the driver asks. “Where have you come from?” Scooping up the cases, the man hoists them into the back of the minibus.

Elin looks to Will to fill the gaps. She finds small talk like this an effort.

“South Devon. Flight was on time . . . never happens. I said to Elin that it’s Swiss timekeeping keeping EasyJet on point.” Will smiles—dark eyes rueful, eyebrows raised. “Shit, that sounded clichéd, right?”

The man laughs. This is Will’s modus operandi with strangers—neutralize them with a mix of sheer enthusiasm and self-deprecation. People are invariably disarmed, then charmed. Will makes moments like this easy. But then, she thinks, hovering behind him, that’s what first attracted her to him—it’s his thing, isn’t it?