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T HE INTERRUPTION DOESN’T STOP T OM. H IS FOCUS REMAINS ON J ACKSON. The flash in his eyes is interest, not intimidation.

“Well, well,” he remarks. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Clearly wrestling with himself, Jackson says nothing.

“Maybe you two kids really will make it work this time,” Tom says.

“Okay,” I say loudly—seemingly the only one of us who has noticed our motionless suspension forty feet over the mountainside. “What if we stop talking until we start moving again? I’d really like to avoid intra-crew homicide.”

“But extra-crew homicide is okay?” Tom clarifies.

Jackson pulls his glare from Tom, surveying the mountain with grudging curiosity. “Why did we stop, though?”

“Probably just letting some elderly Owens onto the chairlift,” Tom replies. “Or one of the kids ate it getting off.”

Over my shoulder, I see snowmobiles racing up the mountainside. Two of them. They cut dual diverging paths beneath the chairlifts.

The closer they get, the easier I can discern the red and blue lights flashing on their shielded fronts. Emergency lights.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

Tom follows my eyeline.

Jackson does not. “Holy shit,” he murmurs, staring straight ahead.

I whip forward, heart jumping into my throat, and immediately I find what he’s noticed.

There’s a figure up the mountain, splayed out on the snow. His angles don’t work, limbs warped wrong. He isn’t moving.

Above him, a chairlift swings violently.

“Did anyone see what happened?” Tom exhales.

“We—I—” I stammer. “We were distracted.” I’m pissed—their ridiculous feud cost us an invaluable observation. Determined to correct the error, overlooking nothing, I focus on the snowmobiles, watching the small vehicles pass under our dangling skis as they head for the contorted man.

“Did he fall?” Jackson dares ask.

“He must have,” I say quietly. “How awful.” Yet somehow unsurprising, I can’t help feeling. Excursions with my family need to come with cautionary labels or liability wavers. Warning—Owens family outings may lead to serious injury or death .

The snowmobiles reach the figure. We’re a literally captive audience to the morbid spectacle.

Emergency officers packed in winter gear examine the man, who remains unmoving.

More medical personnel follow on more snowmobiles until their flickering lights scatter the snow in frantic patterns. It doesn’t look good.

No, that’s an understatement. It looks horrific.

The emergency personnel finally move to clear the snow surrounding the fallen figure. Which is when I notice—

Blue and gold. Sticking out of the mountainside under the man’s feet. His skis.

“Ernest Hensson,” I gasp.

I look up, searching the sky, checking my memory.

“I saw him get on the chairlift,” I say. “He… wasn’t alone.”

Tom follows my gaze. Understanding freezes over his uncharacteristically serious features. “Whoever was with him must have jumped,” he observes slowly, “because the chairlift is empty now.”

In front of us, Ernest’s chairlift—the one I saw him get onto with someone I didn’t recognize , someone outside the Volenvell Owens party—has stopped lurching.

I don’t know how the other rider jumped off, with or without injury, or where they are now, but the reality is unambiguous.

The chairlift is empty. It hangs motionless in the winter sky.

“Why would you jump,” Jackson starts, “unless…”

My heart pounds. We suddenly feel very, very high up.

“Ernest was pushed,” I exhale.

Just then, as if my dread conclusion has unlocked something, the chairlifts start moving again.

Carrying us closer to the horror waiting for us.

While I can’t make out Ernest’s condition, he remains still as the emergency personnel delicately slide a long backboard under him in preparation for lifting him onto their toboggan.

We come closer. I turn my head into Jackson’s shoulder, unable to look.

“ Shit ,” Tom utters.

“Is it bad?” I croak while Jackson strokes me comfortingly.

“No, it’s—I mean, yes, it’s bad,” Tom says. “That’s not what I mean, though. It’s—that’s him ,” he says.

Eloquence has failed even Thomas Pham now. “It’s who?” I ask, pulling my head from Jackson.

“You’re sure?” Jackson murmurs, evidently understanding something I’m not.

“Yes,” Tom says firmly.

“Who?” I repeat.

“Him.” Tom meets my gaze. “Ernest Hensson is the man Mia was talking to last night.”