Everyone In My Family Has Killed Someone

CHAPTER 2

We’ll get to my story, I have to tell you about some others first, but I wish I’d killed whoever decided our family reunion should be at a ski resort.

I am normally resolute in declining any invitation that comes with an Excel spreadsheet attached. But over-preparation is a specialty of my Aunt Katherine’s, and the email invite for the Cunningham/Garcia Family Reunion, complete with animated pixel snowflake, listed attendance as mandatory. I’m well known in family circles for being ready with an excuse – not that people have really minded my absence for the last three years – be it a sick animal, a busted car, or a time-sensitive manuscript.

Katherine was taking no chances this time. The invitation promised a fun and secluded weekend where all of us could catch up. She’d bolded the words all of us, as well as the word mandatory. Evasive as I am, even I can’t argue with bold type. And while all of us didn’t mean me specifically, I knew who it did mean, and that meant I was going. Besides, in between filling out the spreadsheet with my allergies, shoe size, how I like my steak cooked and my car numberplate, I’d allowed myself the fantasy of a snow-capped village and a weekend filled with crackling fires and log cabins.

Instead, I had cold knees and was an hour late for lunch.

I hadn’t realised the road would be unploughed. It was a clear day with a weak sun breaking up the pack snow just enough to slide the tyres of my Honda Civic around, so I’d had to double back and rent chains for an exorbitant price at the bottom of the mountain, and then kneel in muddy slush on the shoulder to wrestle them on, snot forming stalactites out of my nose. I’d still be there if a woman with a snorkel on her Land Rover hadn’t pulled over and given me a mildly judgemental hand. Moving again, I watched the clock creep forward as I alternated between heating the car and using the air-conditioning to defog the windows, but, with the chains on, I couldn’t go above forty. I knew exactly how late I was – thanks to the Excel schedule Katherine had emailed around.

At last I saw the turn, a pyramid of loose rocks with a sign for Sky Lodge Mountain Retreat! pointing to my right. I imagined the sign had a comma, so it instead read, Sky Lodge Mountain, Retreat!, which I thought was good advice ahead of a Cunningham get-together. I had no one in the car to tell my joke to, but it’s the type of thing Erin would have found funny once, so she laughed in my head and I took credit for it anyway. I’m aware that it’s cute that our names, Ernie and Erin, are practically anagrams. When people used to ask us how we met, we’d say, ‘Alphabetically.’ I know, it’s sickening.

The truth is much more mundane; we’d bonded over being brought up in single-parent households. When we met, she told me her mother had died of cancer when she was young, and she was raised by her father. I’ll tell you about my father later. But she already knew about him when we met; infamy is easy to google.

At the turn-off was a squat building that looked like a pub, based on the sign that just said BEER! in house-paint. There were stacks of skis leaning against the wall. It was the type of place where you could lick the windows instead of buying a drink and the sous chef was a microwave. I filed it away as a potential refuge. The weekend was a family reunion, after all; I expected it to be a series of meals scheduled around tactical retreats to private rooms. It would pay to have other options.

Oh. Erin’s not dead, by the way. I realise in making an oblique reference to an old flame, it sounds like I’ll reveal later on that she’s been dead the whole time, because that’s what happens in these kinds of books, but that’s not the case. She was driving up the next day. We were even still technically married. Besides, the chapter numbers don’t line up.

Not long after the turn I realised I was no longer climbing, but going downhill, and soon I broke through the trees to find myself on the ridge of a spectacular valley, at the base of which lay Sky Lodge. Advertised as the highest drive-in accommodation in Australia, which, to be fair, is like bragging about being the world’s tallest jockey, it included a nine-hole golf course carved into the mountainside, a lake brimming with trout to fish from or row across, whatever fireside comfort and rejuvenation meant, access to the neighbouring ski resort (lift pass not included with stay, of course), and even a private helipad. I’m quoting from the brochure, because it had snowed heavily overnight and everything, from the road in front of me, to the now par-400 golf course, to the flattened-out tundra a couple of hundred metres downhill from the guesthouse that I assumed was the lake, lay under the same fresh powder. The valley looked both flat, steep, small and endless at the same time.

I gently rolled down the hill, taking it easy. Pure white has a habit of messing with depth perception, and without the small collection of half-buried buildings at the bottom for reference I might not have even noticed the steepness of the incline until braking would have been futile, locking me into a rapid skid to the bottom: where I would have wound up both very dead and very on time for lunch.

The centre of the retreat was a multi-storey guesthouse, painted bright yellow to stand out from the mountain, with a pillared entryway. It puffed smoke from a brick chimney that braced a side wall like a rod, and it had an advertiser’s dream amount of snow dappled on the roof. Within the five rows of windows, several glowed with soft yellow light, like an advent calendar. The guesthouse was preceded by a gauntlet of a dozen chalets, built in two rows of six, with corrugated iron roofs that reached all the way to the ground, matching the slope of the mountain, allowing floor-to-ceiling windows on the front face, for unimpeded views of the rocky peak. I would be staying in one of these shark’s teeth, but I wasn’t sure which one was number 6, my designation on Katherine’s itinerary, so I rolled through to where several cars were parked to the side of the guesthouse.

I recognised a few of them: my stepfather’s Mercedes SUV, which had a dishonest BABY ON BOARD sign in the back window, because he thought cops pulled him over less frequently with it; Aunt Katherine’s Volvo station wagon, snow-bogged already because she’d driven up a day earlier; Lucy’s [REDACTED CAR TYPE], blending in with the snow, the car so often Instagrammed and gloated about as her ‘business reward’. My rescuer’s Land Rover was also there – of course it was; in a book like this it may as well have had the numberplate ‘M33T-QT’. I recognised it from the large plastic snorkel.

Katherine was steaming across the lot before I’d gotten out of the car, leaning into a slight limp caused by a car accident in her mid-twenties. She was the dictionary definition of Baby Sister to my father, the age gap so significant that when my mother pumped out us Cunningham Boys in her thirties, I was closer in age to my aunt than my mother was to her sister-in-law. So, growing up, I remember Katherine as youthful, energetic and fun. She’d bring us presents and regale us with fantastic stories. I thought she was popular, too, because people would talk about her at family barbecues when she wasn’t there. But age gives perspective, and now I know the difference between being popular and being talked about. Intervention came in the form of a wet road and a bus stop. The accident broke a lot of her bones and crumpled her leg, but it also straightened her out. Now, the only thing you really need to know about Katherine is that her two favourite sentences are ‘What time do you call this?’ and ‘re: my previous email’.

She wore a bright-blue thermal top under a puffy North Face vest, some type of rustling waterproof pants, and hiking boots that looked stiff as stale bread. All pristine and straight off the rack. She looked like she’d walked into an adventure store, pointed at a mannequin and said, ‘That one.’ Her husband, Andrew Millot (but we all call him Andy), who had followed her out but kept his distance, was woefully underdressed in jeans and a leather jacket, looking as if he’d spent his time in the same adventure store checking his watch. Without grabbing my bags or my coat, deciding that it was better to be lashed by cold air than Katherine’s tongue, I hurried to intercept her.

‘We’ve eaten,’ was all she said, which I think was supposed to be both criticism and punishment.

‘Katherine, I’m sorry. I had trouble on the mountain past Jindabyne. Fresh snow.’ I pointed back at the chains on my tyres. ‘Luckily someone helped me put these on.’

‘You didn’t check the forecast before you left?’ She sounded incredulous that anyone would commit such treason to punctuality as to not account for the weather.

I admitted that I hadn’t.

‘You should have factored that in.’

I admitted that I should have.

She ground her jaw. I knew Katherine well enough to know that she just wanted to have her say, so I stayed silent. ‘All right then,’ she said eventually, then leaned in and planted an icy kiss on my cheek. I have never known how to reciprocate a cheek-to-cheek greeting, but I decided to take her advice and factor in the weather – her stormy demeanour – and settled on a mwah sound in the air beside her face. She pressed a set of keys into my hand and said, ‘Our room wasn’t ready yesterday so you’re in Four now. Everyone’s in the dining room. Good to see you.’

She took off back towards the guesthouse before I could make small talk, but Andy waited and walked with me, offering me a casual shoulder lean of hello rather than taking his hands from his pockets to shake my hand. The cold was bracing, but I was committed to socialising now so my jacket had to languish in the car. The wind was cruel; it found every crevasse in my clothes, invaded and patted me down like I owed it money.

‘Sorry about that,’ Andy offered. ‘You should go easy on her.’ That was Andy in a nutshell, wanting both a blokey alliance and to stick up for his wife: the type of guy who says, ‘Yes, honey,’ at a dinner party but then wobbles his head and goes, ‘Pfft, women, right?’ when she’s in the loo. His nose was red, but it was hard to tell if the cause was alcohol or temperature, and his glasses were slightly fogged up. His short, jet-black goatee sat on his face like it had been taken hostage from a younger man; he was in his early fifties.

‘I didn’t do a rain dance last night just to piss her off,’ I said.

‘I know, mate. It’s just a tricky weekend for everyone. So, you know, you don’t have to make fun of her for trying to make it a little easier.’ He paused. ‘Not a big deal, hey – don’t let it get in the way of us sinking a few beers this trip.’

‘I didn’t make fun of her. I’m just late.’ I could see my stepsister, Sofia, having a cigarette on the porch as we approached. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, it’s worse inside.

Andy took a few steps in silence, and though I inwardly begged him not to, drew a breath and said, ‘Yeah, but,’ and I decided there’s nothing sadder than a man trying to stick up for a woman who can stick up for herself, ‘she put a lot of work into those invites, and you didn’t have to make fun of her spreadsheets.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Not now. When you sent it back. Under allergies you wrote “spreadsheets”.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Sofia overheard and scoffed, ejecting a plume of smoke out her nose. Erin, who’s not dead, would have liked that one too. Andy didn’t need to say aloud what I’d written under ‘Next of kin’ – it’s a family reunion, so anyone here, unless Avalanche – for me to feel a right arse. I conceded. ‘I’ll go easy.’

Andy smiled, pleased that his husbandly virtues, if not affectionate, were at least box-ticking.

He headed inside, miming a drink as he left to imply that he’d order me one, affirming our laddish allegiance, while I stopped to say hello to Sofia. Being Ecuadorian, from steamy Guayaquil, she hated the cold, and I saw at least three collars around her neck beneath the coat on top. Her head looked like the bud of a flower, poking out from a ring of collared petals. Even rugged up, one arm was wrapped across her waist to hug herself warm. I knew I was better accustomed to cold than she was, having plunged myself into various ice baths over the years (fun fact: apparently low temperatures increase male fertility), but I didn’t wish to linger in conversation, the cold was burrowing into me.

She offered her cigarette to me, though she knew I didn’t smoke; it’s just something she always liked to do. I waved away the smoke.

‘Good start,’ she said, mocking.

‘Make friends early, I always say.’

‘Glad you’re finally here. I was waiting for you to rescue me – I knew you’d distract everyone. Here.’ She handed me a small, square piece of cardboard, which had a grid printed on it. Inside each box was a short phrase, relating to different family members: Marcelo shouts at a Waiter; Lucy tries to SELL you anything. I spotted my name – Ernest ruins something – in the middle left column.

‘Bingo?’ I asked, reading the heading: Reunion Bingo.

‘Thought it would be fun. Just made them for you and me.’ She held her card up; I could see it had a cross already on it. ‘Everyone else is too sour.’ She wrinkled her nose.

I snatched the card from her. It had different statements to mine, as well as a couple of generic events. The grammar was all over the place, random caps for emphasis, absurd parentheses, no full stops. Some were more tongue-in-cheek than others. I could be relied on to be tardy, just as Marcelo could be relied on to chew out hospitality staff, but the bottom right square said: Avalanche. I looked back at mine; the same spot said: Broken Bone (OR Someone Dies) with an incongruous smiley face. The square that Sofia had already crossed through read: Ernest is late.

‘Not fair.’ I gave it back to her.

‘You better catch up. Shall we?’

I nodded. Sofia finished her smoke and flicked the butt off the porch into the snow. But against the sparse, fresh white, it was glaringly out of place. She gave me a forlorn look and then trudged off the porch, bent down and picked it up, pocketing it.

‘You know,’ she said, leading me inside, ‘you’ll have to play nice if you want to make it out of this weekend alive.’

I swear to God she actually said that. And she even winked at me. As if she’s the one telling the damn story.

CHAPTER 3

The guesthouse itself was a hunting lodge masquerading as the Ritz: every surface, banister, and door handle had ornate polished-wood accents; there was soft lighting from wall-mounted electric lamps made of frosted glass moulded into flowers, and the foyer even had a red carpet, complete with a chandelier hanging low from the roof, glittering beside the second-floor walkway. In fact, everything from the waist up was almost elegant enough to make up for the snow-damaged lower half: the hotel equivalent of taking a pantsless video call in a collared shirt. The carpets, well-worn from stomped snow-caked shoes, sat atop a swollen wooden floor that creaked like it wasn’t quite nailed down, and the patchwork rugs and hastily plastered mice holes evidenced a building maintained by the motto that it was easier to find quick fixes than to get a tradie up the mountain. Not to mention the damp. The whole place smelled like my car after I’d left my sunroof open during a thunderstorm. Altitude adds several stars to a hotel rating, and while this was a two scraping by as a four, it had a cosy charm.

Conversation evaporated upon my entry to the dining room, where everyone was midway through dessert, and I was greeted by the symphony of spoons clinking down on plates. My mother, Audrey, who was at the head of the table, sized me up. She had fishing-wire silver hair tied in a bun, and a scar above her right eye. She hesitated – she may have been deciding whether or not I was my brother (it had been a while since either of us had seen her) – and then pushed her chair back from the table, dropping her cutlery with a clatter. This was an argument-stopping technique I remembered from my childhood.

Marcelo, my stepfather, was sitting to her left. Marcelo is a heavy-set bald man with one of those folds above the back of his neck that I’ve always assumed he has to floss in case mould builds up. He put a heavy hand on Audrey’s wrist. Not in a controlling way; I don’t want to misrepresent my mother’s relationship or invoke any predisposed judgement of stepfathers. You see, my stepfather always wore a late 1980s platinum Presidential Rolex – which, when I’d curiously googled the eye-watering price, I learned weighed just shy of half a kilogram – meaning that everything he did with his right hand was, literally, heavy-handed. The advertisement for the watch, I recalled, was quite ridiculous: An Heirloom Should Be Heavy Enough For History. Marcelo had worn it for as long as I could remember. I assumed I wasn’t in the running to inherit it. Stupid as the slogan was, it was better than some of the others I’d seen – like Three Hundred Metres Depth, Bulletproof Glass: Safe As A Bank Vault – which pretended all millionaires were part-time scuba-instructors.

‘I’ve finished,’ Audrey said, shaking off Marcelo’s hand with a clunk. Her plate was still half full.

‘Oh, grow up,’ Sofia grunted, taking a seat next to Lucy (my sister-in-law, who you might remember Michael mentioning in Chapter 1), who was opposite Marcelo. Lucy had clearly preened for this weekend: her blonde hair was freshly cut in a bob and the tag was jutting out of the collar of her newly purchased knitted cardigan. I don’t know if Sofia was emboldened by having Lucy as a shield or if she just hadn’t noticed my mother’s proximity to sharp cutlery, but such backtalk would have been suicidal for a blood relative. Instead, the only thing that died was my mother’s resolve to leave the table, and she creaked back into her seat.

Andy and Katherine rounded out the punctual members of the family. I took my place quietly next to Sofia, in front of a covered plate. It turned out someone had saved my main, beef cooked to spreadsheet specification, and Katherine must have spent some time glowering at the cloche because it was still lukewarm. Lucy had an extra plate in front of her, which meant she’d pinched my entrée, and I wondered if she was just hungry or if it was a deliberate gesture.

Something you should know about me is that I like to look at everything two ways. I’m always trying to see both sides of the coin.

‘Well,’ Andy said, clapping his hands together in an attempt to break the ice, which only someone who’d married into the family would be stupid enough to try. ‘How about this place, huh? Anyone checked out the rooftop yet? I heard they have a jacuzzi. You can tee off from the roof too. Concierge told me if you hit the weather station, they give you a hundred bucks. Who’s up for it?’ He hunted enthusiasm by peering over at Marcelo, who looked like he was dressed for a golf trip rather than the snow, with a chequered sweater-vest that even I knew was made of cotton, not wool, and therefore was a real death wish in the wet and cold. Judged as I’d felt by the woman with the snorkelled four-wheel drive, at least I’d brought a polar fleece.

‘Ern?’ Andy continued looking around the table. Katherine, who was between him and Marcelo, nudged him quiet. Talking to the enemy was forbidden.

We all ate in silence, but I knew everyone at the table was thinking the same thing I was: that whoever’s idea it was to kick off this weekend a day early, when we all knew the reason we were here wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, deserved to be strapped to a toboggan and given a shortcut down the mountain.

You can tell a lot about someone from whether they can handle an uncomfortable silence. If they ride it out or snap it off. Patience seemed to be a trait lacking in those who had married in, as Lucy was the next one to attempt conversation.

I’ll tell you a little bit about Lucy. Lucy runs an independent online business, by which I mean she loses money on the internet periodically. She is a Small Business Owner in the same way Andy is a Feminist, in that she declares it loudly, often, and she’s the only one who believes it.

I won’t name the company because I don’t want to get sued, but I recall her being promoted to Vice Executive Regional President (or something) a while back, along with about ten thousand others. An arbitrary title, unless of course it was referring to her own vice of badgering friends into buying shit they didn’t need, in which case she was certainly presidential. That was also why she’d got the car I’d seen out front, which according to her post on Instagram was a freebie reward from the program. I knew that it was actually just a lease, and the gifted component was merely a monthly contribution, with incredibly strict conditions that, if breached, revoked the ‘free’ part and left the owner with a very expensive loan. That is, the car was free until it wasn’t.

I was sure Lucy no longer fulfilled the conditions and was paying for it out of her own pocket. But that was key to the whole thing: to never let the reality outweigh the image of success. A friend who is a car salesman told me that he’d had to ban a certain type of woman from taking photos with cars on the lot, pretending to have just earned one to post about online. They’d leave infuriated, clanking away in their smoke-belching hatchback with some giant novelty red bow unused in the back. This was why, you’ll understand, I redacted the model of Lucy’s car, because they are very specifically linked to a certain company.

Lucy commits to the rhetoric; she describes it as a business and tenses up whenever anyone says that specific word. So out of respect, I won’t use it. I’ll just say the Egyptians built them.

In an attempt to fit in with the family, Erin used to dutifully attend Lucy’s parties, buying the cheapest of whatever product she was shilling that month. Once home, she’d type up an invoice with a restaurant name and a value as a multiple of how boring or arduous the party had been, and leave it on my pillow: In-law Tax Invoice: Eyelash curler $15; rate x 3 (make-up tutorial rate); >1 hour, overtime x 1.5 = $52.50: Bella’s Italian.

‘Everyone get up here all right? I got stung by the speed trap – two-hundred and twenty dollars for going maybe seven over. It’s ridiculous,’ Lucy said. And the relief that it wasn’t a sales pitch was almost palpable, though it did my bingo card (Lucy tries to SELL you anything) no favours.

‘Revenue raising,’ Marcelo chipped in. ‘They bring out the extra patrols to catch the tourists, let the locals go. That’s also why it’s a forty speed limit. Road like this should be seventy, but they want to make you impatient.’

‘You think there’s a case in it?’ Lucy asked hopefully.

‘Not in the slightest.’ I don’t think Marcelo meant for his disinterest, while honest, to be so cold, but it iced the table.

‘Has everyone been to their chalet yet? They’re lovely.’ Katherine was the next one to try. ‘We stayed last night and the morning views are just . . .’ She trailed off like there was no word in the world that could do justice to both the beauty of the sunrise and her skill in picking competitively priced mountain views.

‘I didn’t realise,’ said Marcelo slowly, ‘that we would have to walk between the hotel and our accommodation.’

‘Trust me, it’s much nicer than the rooms upstairs here,’ Katherine defended, like she had stock in the resort. ‘Besides, I wanted him to have some space. You know? To spread out in. A nice view. Not some stuffy room that’s not much bigger than . . .’

‘I don’t think he’ll give a shit, provided there’s fresh linen and cold beer,’ Lucy said.

‘Doesn’t mean we can’t stay here,’ Marcelo grumbled.

‘We got a discount for booking six chalets, remember?’

‘Might pay for your speeding fine.’ I couldn’t resist needling Lucy, but aside from a flicker of a smile from Sofia, I was ignored.

Marcelo dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. ‘How much do you want for me to switch rooms?’

‘You’ll manage the walk, Dad,’ Sofia said. ‘I’ll piggyback you if you want.’

That finally got a wry smile out of him. ‘I’m injured,’ he moped theatrically, clutching at his right shoulder. Sofia, a surgeon, had done Marcelo’s shoulder reconstruction herself, just over three years ago, and it had long healed. It was obvious he was putting it on. For what it’s worth, he seems pretty well healed when he swings a punch at me in Chapter 32.

Normally, a surgeon wouldn’t be allowed to operate on family. But Marcelo is accustomed to getting what he wants, and he’d insisted he’d only trust his daughter’s hands. The hospital’s nose for a wealthy potential benefactor ironically turned enough blind eyes for the Garcia Wing of the ophthalmology centre to be built.

‘Settle down, old man,’ Sofia joked, spearing some beef. ‘I hear you had a top-class surgeon.’

Marcelo’s indignation was similarly overacted. Clutching his heart like he’d been sniped with an arrow, he may as well have put her on his shoulders and carted her around. He might have, had his shoulder, of course, not been so badly ‘injured’. The affection between them was almost tangible. Marcelo was father to only a daughter, and while he was kind to Michael and me (when he’d married my mother it was obvious he’d relished having boys to raise), Sofia would always be his little girl. Even his stony, lawyerly façade broke down in front of her, as he aped about to get a giggle the way fathers do.

‘Or we could nick a snowmobile,’ Andy said, excited by the oasis of conversation. ‘I saw a couple of them parked outside and asked if they rented them out. Groundskeeper said they’re for maintenance only. Maybe we could grease his wheels.’ He rubbed his thumb and two fingers together.

‘What are you, twelve?’ Katherine said.

‘Honey, I just thought it would be fun.’

‘Fun is the views and the atmosphere and the company, not the spa and golf balls off the roof and zooming around on a death trap.’

‘I think it sounds fun,’ I offered. Katherine reheated my meal again with another glare.

‘Thank you, Ern—’ Andy started, but Audrey interrupted with a loud cough. He turned to her. ‘What? Are we just all going to pretend like he isn’t here?’ he said, pretending I wasn’t there.

‘Andrew . . .’ Katherine warned.

‘Come on! When was the last time you all saw each other?’

Big mistake, Andy. We all knew the answer to that one.

My mother was the one to say it out loud. ‘The trial.’

Suddenly I’m back in the witness box, listening to a lawyer who keeps one hand in his pocket and the other darting a laser-pointer around the room as if the jury were feline, postulating over giant cardboard pictures of a webbed clearing that I still sometimes dream about, with arrows and lines and coloured boxes superimposed over the top. And I’m in the middle of answering a question when my mother stands and walks out, and all I can think of is why they insist on courtrooms having the tallest, heaviest, loudest wooden doors possible. Because surely something discreet is better suited to the environment, but the architect must have moonlighted as a Hollywood screenwriter and wanted dramatic entrances and exits, and really I’m only thinking about those damn noisy doors because it means I don’t have to look over at my brother in the dock.

You’re a savvy reader, so you probably already noticed there are a couple of empty seats at the family lunch table. I already told you Erin is driving in tomorrow. Katherine’s only child isn’t coming – this is Amy of the peanut-butter sandwich incident – because she lives in Italy and the importance of this reunion was about a five-to-seven-hour drive and no more. But it should be no surprise that Michael’s not in this scene either. I might, sort of, be responsible for that.

So now you know a few things: why my mother refuses to speak to me; why my brother isn’t there yet; why he’s looking forward to fresh sheets and a cold beer; why I couldn’t conjure up my usual excuse to get out of the weekend; why Lucy is dolled up; why Katherine bolded ‘all of us’ on the invitation.

It had been three and a half years since I knelt in spider webs and watched my brother murder a dying man. Three years since my mother walked out of a courtroom while I was explaining to a jury how he did it. And in less than twenty-four hours, he would arrive at Sky Lodge a free man.

CHAPTER 4

Ever since the funeral, with its folded flag perched ominously on top of the coffin and pews filled with white-gloved, polished-gold-buttoned officers, I’ve known what it feels like to be an outcast. A policeman’s funeral shows the best and worst sides of brotherhood. How it can provide place and pride for many – I saw an officer, hexagon cap cradled in his elbow, flick open a Swiss Army knife and carve an infinity symbol into the coffin’s wood, an eternal bind – but clamp shut to others. I remember an argument in the foyer with the dead man’s two families – one of blood and marriage, and one of blue uniforms – each insisting that they knew what was best: cremation or burial. It was a futile fight, won by blood in the end and the body buried. Legally it made sense, but I also assume cops sit in patrol cars and have ‘if I die’ conversations, like soldiers folding friends’ letters into breast pockets, so who knows?

It was a busy funeral, more like a film set buzzing with activity than a reverential chapel. All the attention – the photographers out the front of the church, the swivelled heads and sideways glances, the shocked whispers: my God, those are his kids – taught me that there’s a difference between being watched and being seen. That much one-sided voyeurism – ‘his kids’ – forms a bubble around you, keeps you locked off. I remember looking at the whipped cream dripping off Mum’s otherwise pristine black dress as we walked out of that church and suddenly knowing two things, as sure as a child knows anything. Dad was gone. And we were in that bubble together.

Being a mother to fatherless boys is no small feat. Audrey had to be amorphous: the prison warden, the snitchy inmate, the bribe-taking guard and the compassionate parole officer all rolled into one. Marcelo had been my father’s lawyer before he started his corporate firm and had taken to hanging around after Dad’s death, I assumed because he felt sorry for my mum. He and Dad must have been friends. Don’t get the wrong idea of a man turning up in a white singlet with a power-tool (Marcelo hung bookshelves once at such a slope my mother complained they made her seasick); he just brought the chequebook to pay for one. And soon giving us a hand turned into asking for one. When Marcelo proposed, with his young daughter in tow, my mother took us out for burgers and asked if we wanted them to be part of our bubble. The fact she’d thought to ask had been enough to convince me. Michael only wanted to know if he was rich, before attacking his cheeseburger.

Growing up, there were days when it was us against her, as it often is with teenage boys; sometimes rebellion over five minutes of video games trumps fifteen years of care. But no matter how many slammed doors or shouting matches, it was always – always – the three of us against the outside world. Even Aunt Katherine only ever got one foot inside – maybe because she was Dad’s sister. My mother was there for us, and she expected us to be there for one another, above all else.

Even the law, apparently.

Part of me understood why she’d walked out of that courtroom, because I had stepped outside our bubble and was siding with the others.

I know you’re probably thinking that three years isn’t much for a murder sentence, and you’d be right. The guy – his name was Alan Holton, if you’re interested – had been shot, and it was difficult to prove whether the bullet or Michael had more to do with his death. Yes, Michael had hit Alan with his car when he stumbled onto the road after being shot, and, yes, he’d made a terrible mistake not taking him directly to a hospital, but he’d had an impeccable defence in Marcelo Garcia (famous both for his corporate law firm Garcia & Broadbridge, now one of the largest in the country, and for refusing to walk forty metres in the snow), who had leaned heavily on Alan’s notoriety as a career criminal, the ambiguity of an unaccounted-for gunman, and a gun they never found.

Even Marcelo’s presence at a murder trial was, in itself, staggering, and I think put laser-pointer guy off his game, but that wouldn’t be giving enough credit to Marcelo’s defence. He’d argued that Michael couldn’t have been expected to make rational decisions given the circumstances. While Michael had failed his duty of care towards Alan (this is important, because in Australia your legal responsibility to help someone only materialises once you begin to help someone, which I learned during the trial) by putting him into his car but not driving him to medical help, he’d also feared for his life, your honour, as he didn’t know if the shooter was still out there or if he was likely to be attacked or followed. So the rub, without getting all technical, was three years’ jail.

Testifying cost me a lot, and by the time the final bargain was accepted – the prison sentence was negotiated behind closed doors in the judge’s chambers – it hadn’t even mattered. I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life, not least accepting Andy’s invitation for a drink at the bar after lunch, and I still haven’t decided if testifying was one of them. Sure, I’d have had to learn to live with staying silent, but I’ve had to learn to live with speaking out too, and I’m not sure which is worse. I’d love to tell you I did it because it was the right thing to do. But the truth is, in my brother’s low growl – ‘he just stopped breathing’ – there was something different. And I could say something clichéd here like, ‘He didn’t feel like my brother anymore’, but it was, in fact, the opposite. He felt like a Cunningham. I saw him without the layers. And if there was something in him like that growl, like his shoulders, his forearms flexed as he strangled the life out of someone, then was it in me too? I wanted to banish that part. So I’d turned to the police. I hoped there was some part of my mother that understood why I’d done it. And when tomorrow came, I was hoping there’d still be some part of me that did too.

I’ll admit to being a little wobbly as I crunched my way across the snow to my chalet. Andy had been excited enough by the promise of a drinking buddy that he’d been willing to swap allegiances and I’d humoured him as long as he was buying. Andy is a horticulturist. He grows the grass on cricket pitches and football fields to the right length and specifications. He is a terrifically boring man in a terrifically boring marriage, which, I have always found, makes for a generous shout.

I’d brought a wheelie bag with an extendable handle that is convenient in airports but not so much on mountainsides, which I managed to move in a bunny-hop, lift-and-drop movement, as well as a sports bag, which I hung over my shoulder. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the mountain was starting to darken as the peak blocked the sun, and, despite the warmth of a few beers in me, I could feel the immediate change. It was like what I’d heard happens on Mars; it snap-freezes come dark. Andy thought he’d go check out the jacuzzi after our drinks and I hoped he’d changed his mind, otherwise they’d have to chisel him out of it.

Despite the temperature, by the time I’d struggled my bags to my half-buried chalet, I’d worked up quite a sweat. The snow was hip high but the staff had shovelled a canyon to my door, which my bag pinballed off as I dragged it. The windowed face of the hut had a protruding awning, so the views remained unimpeded by snow drifts.

As I fumbled with the keys, I spied a torn piece of paper staked with a twig into a mound of snow by the door. I picked it up. Someone had written a message in thick black texta, and the words had started to bleed as the paper got soggy, so it had a creepy feel.

It read: The fridge sucks. Dig.

There was a large S on the bottom right: Sofia. I leaned over and dusted the mound with my hand, revealing the silver tops of the six cans of beer she’d buried for me. Since Michael’s trial, Sofia had been the only one who kept in touch. I’d known my banishment was severe when even Lucy didn’t email me anymore to invite me to her Free Seminars. But Sofia had reached out. Perhaps because she was, like me, an outsider. She’d been inserted into a new family, in a new country, by her father. I say ‘inserted’, but no one climbs the ladder of corporate law by paying enough attention to their children, doting as Marcelo was when he was around, so I really mean ‘dumped’. And while she could never argue that she was unwelcome in our home, I think she could always feel our invisible bubble. After the trial levelled the field, we’d turned from cordial step-siblings into genuine friends. It was why she’d invited me, and me alone, into her bingo game.

I packed the snow back over the drinks, pleased that there was at least some warmth left on the mountain, and headed inside. The chalet was a single room that had a strange, tilted feeling – like being off-balance on a ship – due to the incline of the roof. This uneasy feeling was compensated for by the panoramic view: it was the first part of the trip that had been ‘as advertised’. I’m not too proud to pat my aunt on the back here and say it was breathtaking. Especially with the last fingers of sunlight curling over the ridge, and the long shadow of the peak stretching across the slope.

The roof was over three metres high on the window side, framed with a wooden-beam ribcage, before gradually tapering across the chalet, over a lounge, television, an abundance of rugs, and a cast-iron fireplace. The roof must have only reached snow level and not the ground, because I was surprised to discover a back wall; it was lined with cupboards stocked with hotel kitchen appliances, and a cubic alcove for a bathroom where practicality had again bit the bullet: stooped showers were another concession for the views. A third of the way across the room, a ladder led to a bedroom loft. The staff had pre-set the heating – the fireplace must have been ornamental as it wasn’t on – and my skin prickled as I adjusted from the outdoor temperature. The damp odour of the main hotel was replaced by an oaky, ashen smell, likely from a candle labelled ‘rustic fireplace’.

I left my wheelie bag in the middle of the floor and was tucking the sports bag into one of the cupboards when the phone next to the television rang. My phone had a little number 4 on it. There was no keypad for outside numbers, just a column of speed-dial buttons and mini lights, labelled with the chalet numbers, as well as one labelled ‘Concierge’. Currently number 5 was lit up. It was Marcelo.

‘Audrey’s not feeling well.’ He said ‘Audrey’, not ‘your mother’. ‘We’ll get room service tonight and see you in the morning.’

Skipping a family dinner suited me fine; lunch had already used up most of the tolerance I’d budgeted for the whole weekend. I got a lukewarm bottle of water from the fridge – which did suck, Sofia was right – and necked it, because I’d read somewhere that spending a day in the snow can dehydrate you more than one at the beach. Then I foraged for one of the buried beer cans, reclined on the couch, and before I knew it, I’d dozed off.

I woke to a hammering at my door. Of course I did. You’ve read these kinds of books before.

I had a moment of panic because sometimes I have these dreams – well, memories – about choking, and as I was wrenched from sleep the giant window and the feeling of space made me think, momentarily, that I’d fallen asleep outdoors. The ridge met the deep black sky under the spectacular brightness of stars unblemished by city fog or clouds. The wind outside sounded like it was groaning, and puffs of snow kept spitting off the ridge and swirling into the sky. Closer to me, the mountain was dimly lit from the spill of a halogen spotlight for the night skiers in the neighbouring valley, and the slope was dappled with bone-finger shadows of leaf-stripped trees. The temperature had continued to drop, trying to snake its way into the room; I could almost feel the breath of the glass pulsing against the indoor heating.

I rubbed my eyes and hauled myself upright, lumbering to the door. I opened it.

Sofia stood on the threshold, hands folded into her elbows, flakes of ice in her wind-tussled black hair. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Did you bring the money?’

CHAPTER 5

Okay, look. Here’s the thing. I didn’t lie. Michael asked me to hold on to the money.

When he drove me back home that morning – I was silent in the passenger seat, still pulling sticky spider-web tendrils from my forearms – he’d said it was probably safer if I kept it for now. I could see the thinking: that Alan either took it or was supposed to give it to someone, and something had gone wrong along the way. Whether Michael had anything to do with the ‘going wrong’ part, I wasn’t sure, but if someone was a few hundred grand light, they probably wanted it back. I was another layer – the security blanket – in case the gunman had seen Michael’s car. If there was a gunman at all, of course.

I’d taken the bag with silent understanding. Michael had maybe implied he’d pay me for looking after it, but I was struggling to hear anything, just an underwater-style echo in my head that accompanied his moving lips. In a daze, I’d walked into my house, thrown the bag on the bed, vomited and called the police.

Twenty minutes later I was cuffed, in the back of a wagon, guiding two yawning detectives to the clearing. I know they didn’t take me seriously at first, because they went through a drive-through Macca’s on the way, and I’ve never heard of someone witnessing a murder and having to wait for a McMuffin. That was before everything kicked off. Before there were sirens and ambulances and news vans and even a helicopter landing in the middle of the field. Before there were think-pieces on the murder and, even more popular, editorials on the webbed field (the natural oddity had been produced by spiders relocating from a nearby flood). Before I was locked in an interview room, and they were in my face with photos and hot McDonald’s breath, telling me that Michael had given me up and I should just confess.

When they let me go, after what I assumed was the maximum time they could hold me, I learned that Michael hadn’t said anything at all. They were just trying to see if I was lying to save my own skin. They dropped me home. I asked if they wanted to get KFC on the way, because I wasn’t in a rush. Turned out they were a tough crowd.

It was only when I got home and saw the black bag sitting on my bed where I’d left it that I realised I’d forgotten to tell them about the money.

I swear, I just assumed they’d search the house. At the start I was more focused on Alan and trying to remember which turn was which and exactly what time it had been when my brother picked me up, when he dropped me off and when he asked me to wait in the car. And then I thought that they already had the money, and they’d ask about it eventually, but they didn’t. And then suddenly it’s the next day and I’m signing a piece of paper as true and accurate, and I still haven’t mentioned the money. And neither has Michael – who may not even know that I’m the one who turned him in yet, and so, I figure, maybe he thinks I’m still on his side and protecting it for him. And then I’m on the stand, and still no one’s mentioned it, and neither Michael nor Marcelo bring it up to screw me during the trial, like I’m half expecting them to, and I know I’m well past the point of mentioning it without really putting a spanner in things, and so it sits, unspoken. And the judge reads the verdict and I go home and the bag is still in my house but the world is different. My brother’s in jail and I have a bag with $267,000 in it. I know the amount for sure myself now, because I’ve had time to count it.

That was another reason I couldn’t miss this weekend. I’d told Sofia my plan a few weeks ago. I planned on giving Michael the bag tomorrow. I wasn’t thinking of it as an apology, because I didn’t do anything wrong, but maybe it was some kind of offering. It wasn’t an olive branch, but it was certainly green (metaphorically, at least, because it wasn’t all hundreds). And almost all of it was still there, too. What a good brother I am.

‘Is all of it there?’ Sofia asked, looking at the disembowelled bag in front of her on the couch. She hovered instead of sitting down, nervous about touching it.

‘Most of it,’ I confessed.

‘Most of it?’

‘Well . . . there were some emergencies. It’s been three years. I don’t know if he even counted it.’

‘You said he counted it.’

‘He probably counted it,’ I conceded. ‘I’m hoping he might not remember exactly.’

‘You know what I’d do if I was in prison for three years thinking my brother stole a bag of cash off me? I’d think about it every single day. To the cent.’

‘I figure he thinks I’ve spent it all, and so he’ll be pleased to get it—’

‘—most of it—’

‘—most of it back.’

Sofia gave an exaggerated exhale, complete with fluttering lips, and wandered over to the window. She tapped a finger against the glass and watched the mountain for a moment. ‘Why’d you take it?’ she asked softly, serious now.

She’d seen through all the bullshit I spouted to myself about hanging on to the money because I kept missing my chance to turn it in. Because I was too embarrassed; because I thought it would be too complicated. She could see that there was something else there. Was it as simple as greed? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t expecting Michael to pull me into a hug and split the cash tomorrow, but I’d be lying (and I promised not to) if I didn’t say I’d felt some peace at having this bag in the back of my closet for the last three years, especially with everything that had happened with Erin. It was pack-up-and-leave money. It was everything-goes-south money. It was start-afresh money. I didn’t want it, but I was glad it was there.

‘I didn’t take it.’ I repeated my usual line. ‘I got stuck with it.’

Sofia frowned, disappointed. She knew my excuses were rehearsed.

The truth was: I’d taken two wads of cash and put them in my underwear drawer before I’d left that morning. The truth was: right up until Marcelo had turned the tides of the trial, I’d thought Michael was going away for a much longer time, and so the money wouldn’t matter. The truth was: one of the only reasons I hadn’t spent more of it was I didn’t know where it was from or whether it was traceable; otherwise, I would have at least put it in an account and spent the interest. The truth was: I still hadn’t decided whether I was going to give Michael the money tomorrow.

I’d brought it in case he asked about it. I’d told Sofia I planned on handing it over for accountability, to try to keep myself from backing out.

There’s a look people have when they make up their mind about something. It’s nothing physical, more a sixth sense, like the prickly necked feeling when someone’s looking at you. That happened then. The atoms in the air changed. Sofia had made up her mind about something.

‘What if I told you I needed some of it?’ she said.

The phone rang, startling us. Of course it did. You’ve read these kinds of books before. The little number 2 lit up. It stopped after two rings, before I could move to answer it. I checked the time. A quarter past eleven. If you’re keeping track of the chapter numbers, you’ll know someone just died. I just haven’t found out about it yet.

‘Think about it,’ she said, and I realised she’d been waiting for me to say something.

‘How much do you need?’

‘Maybe fifty.’ She chewed her lip. She picked up a handful from the bag, held it as if weighing it. ‘Grand,’ she added, as if it were possible I’d have thought she’d be visiting me in the middle of the night for fifty dollars.

‘Michael knows I have it.’

‘He knows he left it with you, not that you have it.’ She’d practised this, had her arguments loaded into the chamber just like my excuses. ‘You could tell him the police took it. You could tell him you donated it. You could tell him you burned it.’

I could pretend I hadn’t thought through all of these options myself, but I won’t. I’m reliable, remember?

‘What kind of trouble are you in?’ I asked. What I didn’t say was that there were richer, more-legal people for her to ask. Her father, for one. And fifty grand was a lot of money, sure, but she was a surgeon who owned property: if she wanted fifty thousand dollars (she’d said ‘maybe fifty’, which to me meant she needed exactly fifty), that was what she needed to patch the gap between what she could obtain on her own and the total. And she wanted cash. Which meant fast, quiet and off the books. She was in a much bigger hole than she was letting on.

‘I don’t need help. I just need money.’

‘It’s not my money.’

‘It’s not his either.’

‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’

She put the money down, but I could see her rifling through her mental notes to make sure she’d said everything she’d come here to say, as if she were sitting in a job interview and the interviewers had asked the dreaded ‘So, do you have any questions for us?’ She must have decided she’d ticked off all her most convincing points, because she walked to the door and opened it. A swirl of freezing air shot through.

‘Just look at how they’ve treated you. And you still think you owe them? One day you’ll realise family isn’t about whose blood runs in your veins, it’s who you’d spill it for.’

She put her hands in her pockets and trudged into the night.

I went back inside and looked at the money in a kind of stupor, trying to analyse everything that had just happened.

I wondered if Sofia was right. That even though my family had made a deliberate effort to shut me out, I still felt obligated to them. Was that why I was here? It was too big a question after too many beers too close to midnight, so I gave up on self-examination. I picked up the phone and called back Room Two.

‘Hello?’ To my surprise, Sofia’s voice came down the line. ‘Ern?’

‘Oh, hi Sofia.’ I checked the lights on the phone, and I’d definitely dialled 2. Maybe I’d misread the blinking light before; Sofia couldn’t have called me and been in my chalet at the same time. ‘Sorry, just checking you made it back all right. Being night and all. Wouldn’t want you to wander into a crevasse and miss the family reunion.’

‘You call this a family reunion? Seven people?’ She laughed and the phone crackled. ‘Pfft. White people.’

I tried to laugh with her, but I was in my head about how normal we were pretending to be, which stiffened me right up, and so I only managed a strange, strangled grunt.

‘Okay, Ern,’ she said. ‘Thanks for checking in. Promise me you’ll think about it?’

I didn’t have to promise – I could think of nothing else – but I did. We said goodnight and I hung up. I finished my beer, left the curtains open for the sunrise, and climbed into the loft. I rolled onto my side and looked out at the sharp ridge peeling into infinite sky and felt very small. I wondered what everyone else was doing right now. Sofia, like me, halfway up a mountain, thinking about a bag of money; Erin, in an itchy-sheet motel somewhere halfway on the drive, thinking about God knows what; and Michael, looking at the same sky through a prison window for the last time, maybe thinking about what he’d like to do to me.

I dozed off, somewhat short-sightedly hoping it would all work itself out tomorrow.

CHAPTER 6

When I woke, there was a steady flow of puffy jackets walking past my window. They seemed to be heading towards a small huddle, a few hundred metres further up the slope on the snowed-over golf course. Maybe thirty people. A snowmobile zipped past the congregation, engine whining. Someone further up the hill waved their arms. I couldn’t tell if their meaning was over here or stay back. A flare snaked a luminescent trail into the sky and popped, the crystal-laden ground reflecting the red glow. Light travels well across snow and, as the flare faded, I noticed the snow was still shimmering: not just red, but mixed with blue. Not shimmering, flashing; reflecting a set of coloured lights that must have been by the guesthouse. Police.

I scorched my hands in a fireman’s slide down the loft’s ladder and started shoving the money back into the bag. Luckily, people’s attention appeared to be solely focused up the hill and I was able to get the money packed and back in the cupboard, and some pants on, before anyone saw anything they shouldn’t have. I finished dressing as fast as I could, pulled open the door and spied the only person on the mountain wearing jeans walking past.

‘Andy!’ I called from the doorway, hopping into my left boot. He stopped and turned, waved, and then waited. I hurried in a snow-handicapped wobble over to him. We were in thin enough air that I was out of breath and puffing when I reached him. My breath misted between us, fogging up his glasses. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Some poor bastard.’ He pointed up the hill and started walking. His look of curiosity instead of fear answered my question before I asked it: one of us? I fell into step beside him, thankful that I’d inadvertently dialled Sofia last night and knew she’d made it back to her cabin. Being caught outside overnight would certainly be lethal, even on a calm night like last night. I shivered. It would be an awful way to go.

There was a dead man with frostbite-blackened cheeks lying on his back in the snow. He was all covered – black ski jacket, black gloves, boots – except for his face and for a second my brain flashed to another dark lump in the middle of a white clearing. I shook off the thought, peered over the shoulder of the guy in front of me. There were a couple of dozen gawkers, the promise of drama smoking people out of their hotel rooms like wasps.

In front of us was one male cop, about my age, maybe younger, wearing a beanie with ear flaps and a jacket with a wool collar, trying to keep people away. If I’m honest, he looked flustered, like he had no idea what he was doing. Andy had ambled off to join Katherine, who’d beaten us there, despite this not being on her schedule. Everyone seemed to be in silent agreement that about ten metres was enough distance to preserve the crime scene, and a semicircle had naturally formed. It hadn’t snowed heavily overnight, so the corpse and the three prominent sets of footprints leading up the hill towards it were clearly preserved.

Of the footprints, three sets headed up the hill but only one returned. The returning trail became choppy, with occasional smaller holes next to the shoeprints: I assumed it was the person who found the body running back to report it, panicked, lurching down the hill, putting a hand down here and there. The second set of footprints were clear, linear prints. I assumed they belonged to the cop, currently with the body.

The third set of footprints headed up the slope like the others. But then they broke form: moving backwards and forwards, up and down, all inside a few square metres. It was as if someone was trapped inside an invisible box, ricocheting off the walls. That set of footprints ended at the body. There was no return journey.

The people around me were muttering, pulling out their phones, taking photos and videos. But no one seemed distressed. There were no consoling arms or mouths covered with one hand in dainty shock. Everyone appeared to be doing what I was doing: looking at the body out of intellectual curiosity. Maybe it was because he was frozen, and so felt more like part of the mountain than an actual person who had been breathing twelve hours ago. The scene was curious, but not violent. But surely someone would be screaming, trying to push past us up the hill to get to their loved one. Does no one know him? I wondered.

‘Is anyone a doctor?’ The policeman had given up trying to disperse the crowd. He repeated himself as he peered into the mob, revealing his observational skills to be at the low end of the scale between Blindfolded and Sherlockian. It was an exclusive alpine resort in peak season – half these bloody people were doctors.

I spied Sofia, opposite me in the semicircle, raising her hand.

Katherine leaned over to Andy and whispered something in his ear, shook her head.

The policeman beckoned Sofia over to him, and then led her in a wide berth around the tracks. At first they stood a few metres from the body, with Sofia gesturing down at the man, and then the policeman nodded and she knelt beside him. She cradled his neck in her hands and tilted it one way, then another. Peeled his lips apart. Unzipped the jacket and placed her hands underneath it. She waved the officer down and he knelt beside her, hesitantly letting her guide his hands over the body in the same way. When Sofia was happy she’d shown the officer enough, she zipped up the jacket and stood. They had a short conversation that was whipped up and into the sky by a blast of wind. I saw a brooding grey cloud pushing over the ridge.

‘Ernie, Andy,’ Sofia called. She was scooping her arms through the air. Get up here. I looked at the policeman for approval, and he mimicked her. Andy and I gave the existing trails a wide berth, but the prints up the hill were getting more and more crowded nonetheless. Outside of the huddle of spectators, I could tell the wind was picking up. My cheeks stung. I couldn’t bring myself to look down when we arrived; I focused instead on Sofia, but she was lost in thought, gazing at the corpse.

‘We need to move the body,’ the policeman yelled above the howl of the wind. ‘Get it out of view. I saw a garage on the way in. It will be cold enough for now.’

Andy and I both nodded. The policeman pointed across the slope.

‘We need to go up’—Sofia waved her arms in an exaggerated circle—‘and around! To preserve the scene!’

She wanted to go around the tracks, even though snow was coming, and it likely wouldn’t matter. Which meant she was worried about more than just moving the body: she thought it was a crime scene, unlike the policeman. He certainly wasn’t canvassing the area, taking photos. He might have to rely on the photos of the stickybeaking guests, in which case he’d be glad he hadn’t shooed us off.

It was a silent agreement that Andy and I, who were standing at the corpse’s feet, would grab the ankles, and Sofia and the cop would take the wrists. We tried our best to keep him in the air, but as we shuffled down the hill in shin-deep snow, his head occasionally lolled back and gouged a valley in the fresh powder. He wasn’t that heavy, but he was hard to wrangle. I hooked my fingers into the side of his boot to help my grip. They were sturdy, steel-capped. Sofia was walking backwards, trying to hold his wrist to her chest, but the cop had turned, head into the wind, his arms behind him at waist height. I could hear Andy grunting beside me. He turned to me halfway down and I saw his jaw was set with grim concentration. Spit fizzed in his beard.

He saw me looking at him. ‘You good, mate? Need a break?’

I shook my head. I didn’t say: I’m fine. I’ve done this before.

CHAPTER 7

A stack of wooden pallets in the maintenance shed subbed in as an autopsy table. Around us were several benches strewn with tools, a snowmobile with half its guts pulled out, a few generators along the far wall beside a stack of tyres, and an assortment of tennis-racquet-esque ski shoes hanging on nails. There was no heating, and with the tin walls and concrete floor, it was like stepping into a fridge. It would do as a makeshift morgue. The one benefit of the extreme cold was the lack of odour from the body.

We lowered the body onto the stack of pallets, which were slightly too small, and the man’s limbs sagged over the sides. We took a moment to recoup, breathing heavily. I tried not to look at his discoloured face. I’d read about frostbite, of blackened extremities – noses, fingers – dropping off, but I’d never seen it up close. The policeman finally decided to take a few pictures. Andy rubbed a toe up and down the back of his calf. Sofia shivered, cupped her hands over her mouth and blew into them, then remembered she’d just been handling a corpse and returned them to her sides. The policeman finished with his photos and turned to us.

‘Thanks, fellas,’ he said. Sofia rolled her eyes, reminding the cop that she too had lumbered a corpse down the mountain. He stumbled over his next words but didn’t correct himself, just ploughed on. ‘Normally I wouldn’t move the body, but with the front coming in, I don’t want to have to dig him out later.’

The cop was a few inches taller than me, which may have been his thick boots, and a few kilos heavier, which may have been his thick coat, but I’d have to ignore his full cheeks. He didn’t have a gun on his hip. I don’t know why I noticed that, I just did. He had dark green eyes, and crystals of ice had settled on his eyelashes. It was clear the morning had rattled him, because his gaze darted around the shed before settling on the body, which seemed to suspend his thought process entirely.

‘I’m Ernie,’ I said, to try to snap him out of it. ‘Ernest Cunningham. This is Andrew Millot. You’ve met Sofia. Also Cunningham, hyphen, Garcia.’

‘Garcia, hyphen, Cunningham,’ Sofia corrected with a smile.

‘Let’s get, hyphen, the fuck out of here,’ Andy said, who had spent the whole time immobilised, like the cop, staring at the body. ‘This is giving me the creeps.’

‘Oh.’ The cop returned his attention to us. ‘Darius. Officer Crawford, I guess, but Darius is okay. Formalities are for sea level.’ He extended a hand in greeting. I pointed at the inside of his wrist, where the cuff had a dark stain on it. There was a similar mark on his other wrist too; a stain from carrying the body.

‘You’ve got blood on your coat, Officer Crawford,’ I said, declining the shake. Cunninghams don’t believe in a first-name basis for law enforcement.

Crawford went pale. He looked down at his wrists and breathed deeply.

‘You all right?’ I asked.

‘I, um, I haven’t dealt with a lot of these.’

‘Dead bodies?’

‘Murders,’ Sofia cut in.

‘Well, perhaps, but let’s keep that quiet for now.’ Crawford gave a feeble grin. He’d seemed gormless out in the snow, but up close he looked worse. Seeing the blood had apparently not only made him queasy, it also made him realise he was in over his head.

Andy mouthed the word ‘murder?’ back at Sofia. Even in mime, I could hear the incredulous pitch of his voice. She nodded solemnly.

‘I guess I should ask if you know the guy. Do you recognise him?’ Crawford continued.

‘Is this an interview?’ I asked. I’d spent too many hours sitting behind two-way mirrors to be answering questions without knowing who was asking and what for. ‘Why don’t you question whoever found the body?’

Crawford shook his head. ‘I’m just trying to find out if you know who he is. I could get here the quickest from Jindy, but there’ll be proper detectives on their way who can do the list-of-suspects thing. But I figure I should find out if he was staying here or came over the ridge – maybe a night skier who got turned around.’

‘He’s not wearing skis,’ Sofia said. I realised she was very pale too, as white as the snow on the ground.

‘Yeah, I understand. Do me a favour though – take a closer look.’ He showed us a close-up photo on his phone of the dead man’s face. It was mostly blackened, including his lips. ‘Ring any bells?’

All three of us shook our heads. Not only did I not recognise him, but on closer inspection, I realised it didn’t resemble frostbite at all. Sofia suddenly held up a hand and ran out the door. We watched her go, confused, until the distinct sound of retching was carried over to us on the wind. Andy and I stood, trying to figure out whether it would be more helpful or embarrassing for us to go out with her, and both settled on inaction.

I’ll hold it here to mention that I know some authors are incapable of having a woman throw up without it being a clue to a pregnancy. These same authors seem to think nausea is the only indication of childbearing, not to mention their belief that vomit shoots out the woman’s mouth within hours of plot-convenient fertilisation. By some authors, I mean male ones. Far be it from me to tell you which clues to pay close attention to, but Sofia’s not pregnant, okay? She’s allowed to throw up of her own volition.

‘All right,’ Crawford said to Andy and me. He seemed happy with our response to the photos, his obligation to the investigation complete, and even a touch more comfortable around the body. ‘I guess that’s it for now.’ He walked over to the benches and fossicked around until he found an open brass padlock with a key hanging from it. We followed him out the front as he screeched the tin door closed and fiddled with the lock. ‘I’d say don’t go anywhere—’

‘—but you can’t.’ I finished it for him.

‘Ernest’s done this before,’ Sofia added, emerging from the side of the shed, wiping her mouth. ‘Dead bodies,’ she said sheepishly, by way of explanation. ‘It never gets any easier.’

Crawford let out a heavy breath. He seemed tired. I pegged him as a country cop who’d spent most of his career with his feet on the desk or giving tourists like Lucy speeding tickets. He seemed more annoyed to have been pulled from his comfortable day than interested in the corpse. ‘All right. I’ve called it in. I understand you’re waiting on another guest?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I said.

‘Just crossing t’s and dotting i’s. I’ll be in the guesthouse if you need me, but hopefully there’ll be some detectives here soon. Depending on snow and traffic.’ He glanced up at the mottled sky doubtfully and clicked the lock closed.

‘Murder?’ Andy complained as we walked down the hill. While the mob had dispersed, there were still scattered people dotted across the resort who had watched us put the body in the shed. I was glad the shed had no windows, otherwise there would have been some icy foreheads. ‘He was clearly outside overnight, froze to death. You’re not even a doctor anymore and you’re getting involved, telling that cop it was a murder?’

I hadn’t known Sofia was no longer a surgeon. I wondered if it had something to do with Katherine whispering in Andy’s ear when she raised her hand at Officer Crawford’s request. I wondered if it had something to do with her needing fifty thousand dollars. I glanced at Sofia. If Andy had meant it as an insult, it had bounced right off her. Her expression didn’t change. Gave nothing away.

‘Blood?’ I thought aloud, trying to figure it out for myself. ‘Officer Crawford got blood on his sleeves from carrying the body. If the guy died from exposure overnight, why would he be bleeding? You’re saying he was attacked?’

‘His face is blackened from frostbite,’ Andy argued. ‘What the hell did you tell that cop?’

If our family had a motto, it would be: non fueris locutus est scriptor vigilum Cunningham. Which is Latin for: Cunninghams don’t speak to cops. I don’t speak Latin; I’m not ashamed to admit I googled that. Andy was offended by Sofia’s cooperation on Katherine’s behalf. ‘On behalf of’ was a typical position for Andy to take. His middle name should have been ‘Proxy’.

‘The blood’s from an injury on his neck. And you were carrying his feet – you didn’t get a good-enough look. That’s not frostbite on his face,’ Sofia said. ‘It’s ash.’

‘Ash? Like charcoal?’ I said. ‘Out here?’

‘It’s clogged in his windpipes, caked on his tongue. If we cracked him open, we’d find it in his lungs, I’m sure. It doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for the fact that he doesn’t have a single burn mark on him, and he’s in a snowfield that has no signs of being melted, I’d say the cause of death was obvious.’

‘Enlighten us.’ Andy was clearly unconvinced.

‘He died in a fire.’

CHAPTER 8

All I can hope for, when I die, is to be a buzzing topic of conversation over breakfast. Our meal was with the masses – Katherine must have booked the private room for yesterday’s lunch – and the dining hall was alive with conversation. Snippets jumped out as I threaded my way through the long wooden benches: frozen solid!; I got stuck in the bunker on Hole Eight last year too, not as bad as this guy though, maybe he needs to work on his chip shot; I heard he’s not even staying here?; I’m not letting Jason and Holly out of my sight.

I joined the line, shuffling past the bain-maries, and filled my plate. The bacon was untouched, assumedly because people were confronting their own mortality and avoiding saturated fats. I loaded up, then joined my family, sitting next to Lucy and across from Sofia. This was closer to my mother than I preferred, but I thought it too pointed to leave a gap and sit on the other side of Andy and Katherine. While every other table was trading theories about what had happened to the man on the mountain, which I thought would be an opportunity for Sofia to propound her murder theory, she was uncharacteristically quiet, head down, pushing her food around rather than eating it. Instead, I had to listen to Marcelo gently defend himself against Lucy’s latest investment opportunity pitch, some harebrained scheme that was so multi-level it needed an elevator. I used to make fun of her for it, until I’d realised that these companies prey on women by weaponising certain feminist ideals – namely independence, both financial and in business – to fabricate a sense of self-worth. Lucy, with her husband in prison, was a perfect target to become addicted to this faux success.

Marcelo, to his credit, was weathering her Boss Babe attack calmly, waiting for her to tire herself out. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying being a part of something, but be careful. Like with that car they’ve given you.’ Marcelo couldn’t resist just one dig at her. ‘I hear it’s on a pretty rigid contract – you could get stuck with a very expensive lease.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Lucy huffed. ‘We actually paid it off in advance.’ She said the last part proudly, but Marcelo clearly didn’t believe her. She was quiet after that.

I looked around the room and saw Officer Crawford sitting on his own by the window, gazing up at the peak. Waiting for the real detectives so he could go home? I’m not sure. All the lights were on inside the dining hall, but with the rumbling sky it could have passed for early evening. Maybe he was watching the entry road, worried about getting stuck up here. I realised that he would be able to see the maintenance shed from his angle; he was keeping an eye on it. I felt chastened for not giving him enough credit. He was probably working through what Sofia had told him. I’d been thinking about it too, remembering the footprints, the way they darted in that small, square area: an invisible box. I now knew I was looking at the last movements of a burning man. A frantic dance back and forth, with no idea of direction, as he was engulfed in flames. And yet: not a drop of melted snow.

‘All I’m saying,’ Andy was enthusing to Katherine, interrupting my thoughts with his volume, ‘is that we now know from Bitcoin what to watch for. We’re not talking doubling or tripling like traditional stocks. It’s a real game changer.’ I noticed Sofia slide a piece of paper from her pocket, dash an X on it with a flourish, and shoot me a wink. I realised I hadn’t been keeping track of my own bingo card. I couldn’t cross off Lucy’s sales pitch because she was talking to Marcelo, not me. I could cross off the bottom-right square (Broken Bone OR Someone Dies) but decided it was tacky. To do it in front of people at least – I did want to win.

There was a pyramid of croissants in the middle of the table. Andy reached for one, but Katherine slapped his hand.

‘I washed my hands,’ he complained.

‘Some things don’t wash off.’ She wrapped a napkin around a pastry and dropped it onto his plate. He picked up his cutlery, sulking.

‘Don’t worry. He’ll get here before the storm,’ Marcelo said to Audrey, but our table was so starved of conversation that everyone’s ears pricked up at the opportunity. Even mine.

‘We’re staying?’ Lucy asked.

‘You think they clear the resort every time someone hits a tree on a black diamond run?’ Marcelo shook his head, matter-of-fact. ‘People die in nature. Without the right skills and knowledge . . . If you don’t respect the mountain, what do you expect?’ He shrugged, with the confidence of someone who believes if you’re successful in one thing, you’re successful in all things. I’d seen Marcelo scream at a teenager over froth on his latte: if he didn’t respect a barista, I doubted he respected a mountain.

‘It’s non-refundable,’ Katherine added, between sips of orange juice. Then she shot a look at Sofia, as if she was most likely to object. ‘We’re staying.’

‘And what would even be the point of leaving?’ Marcelo finished his thought. ‘We’re probably more aware of the dangers now.’

Andy and I both glanced over at Sofia. Me, out of curiosity, to see if she’d respond; Andy, in more of a challenge. Her fork scraped her plate, but she didn’t look up.

‘Michael’s not going to want to turn up and see the place crawling with cops, asking questions about some dead guy,’ Lucy said.

‘They won’t have any cause to ask him questions,’ Marcelo said. ‘He was two hundred kilometres away last night.’

‘I just don’t think it’s good to remind him of—’

‘Michael can decide for himself. When he gets here.’ Audrey’s firm voice cut through. She had a mother’s touch for putting an end to arguments. We were staying. All of us. It was non-negotiable.

‘What if it’s the Black Tongue?’ Sofia finally spoke. Andy blew croissant flakes over the table with a surprised snort. ‘You know the most common cause of death in a fire is not burning, it’s suffocation. The fire pulls too much oxygen from the air.’

‘Not over breakfast, love,’ said Marcelo.

‘Bit dramatic,’ choked Andy, thumping his chest to work the pastry through.

‘What’s a Black Tongue?’ Lucy and I asked in unison.

‘Bit light on current affairs, are you?’ Andy said, making a Psycho-esque stabbing motion in the air.

‘I’m serious,’ Sofia said. ‘Andy, like I told you outside, there’s something strange about the—’

‘Don’t pull me into this,’ said Andy.

‘Ern?’

‘I believe you, but I didn’t get a very good look.’

‘I wouldn’t rely on Ernest – he’s got a bit of form for backstabbing.’

‘Lucy, honestly.’ Sofia was begging now. ‘Listen. From what I’ve read, I think it fits—’

‘Little Miss Wants to be a Hero has a diagnosis, does she? We’re supposed to trust you?’ Katherine’s tone was so vicious, it caught me by surprise. The way she lingered on the word ‘trust’. ‘You saw the body for what, a minute, maybe two?’

‘I carried the damn thing down a mountain. Trust me. Something’s not right. Officer Crawford’s going to want to hope his buddies get here soon, because I don’t think he realises what he might have stumbled into.’

There are usually two types of cops in these books: Only Hopes and Last Resorts. At this stage, Darius Crawford’s only hope was to be a Last Resort. I wasn’t prepared to count on him any more than I would a bombmaker’s fingers. Sofia had clearly made the same assessment.

‘Can you even hear yourself?’ Katherine was just mocking her now. It was like a school cafeteria. If she had had a chocolate milk, she might have poured it on Sofia’s head. ‘Are you even sober?’

Andy was going to need a Heimlich if he kept choking on his croissant. Marcelo took a sharp breath, shocked by Katherine’s remark. I was not so surprised; Katherine had been a teetotaller since her accident, and anything other than total sobriety may have offended her.

‘I didn’t see you volunteering to help,’ I waded in, if only so Sofia could see someone was on her side. I wasn’t going to ask her at the table, as it would turn into a full-blown argument, but I was curious to hear more about whatever the Black Tongue was.

Katherine talked across me to Sofia. ‘That’s because I assumed he was asking for real doctors, not suspended ones.’

I’d only found out half an hour ago, while looking at a body, mind you, that Sofia’s surgical career was on the backburner, so I was still getting my head around it. I’d just assumed it was a mid-life crisis, a career shake-up. But Katherine was making an accusation. The same one she must have whispered to Andy in the crowd.

Sofia flushed red. She stood up and, for a second, I thought she was about to lunge across the table and Officer Crawford might well have an even busier day, but instead she folded her napkin, tossed it on her plate and said pointedly before leaving: ‘I’m still registered.’

‘Was that really necessary?’ I hissed at Katherine after Sofia was out of earshot.

‘I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. I thought you two were bolted together these days. Figures.’

‘Told me what?’

‘She’s getting sued.’ Katherine smirked. And all I could think of was: maybe fifty. ‘By the family of someone who died on her table.’ Andy made a glug-glug mime behind her. I now recognised the bite in Katherine’s words, accusing Sofia of being a drunkard. I thought of the six-pack of beer buried outside my door. She liked a drink, sure, but I’d never known her to overdo it. Had she made a mistake? Why hadn’t she told me?

I turned my attention to Marcelo. ‘If she’s getting sued, are you defending her?’

He looked over to Katherine, almost an appeal, but met her hard stare. He shook his head and said bluntly, ‘Her mess.’

I thought this very uncharacteristic of him; I’d always thought Sofia was his little princess. ‘You’ll defend Michael on a murder charge but not your daughter?’

‘Michael’s served his time,’ Lucy said. ‘No thanks to you.’

‘You’re still going to stand by him?’ I spat. It was meaner than I intended, because while I was getting mad, I wasn’t actually mad at Lucy. She and I should have been united, at least, on this, but she’d clearly decided she wanted to bury her head in the sand, outsource her anger to a scapegoat (me), instead of dealing with the actual pain of the breakdown of her marriage.

Audrey pulled one of her standing-from-the-table routines to shut us up. Everyone made to leave. But I wasn’t done. I was furious. Crawford was curiously watching our family; we must have been talking more loudly than I’d realised. I wondered if he knew we were Cunninghams: read, automatic suspects. He had known that Michael was expected to join us, so I supposed he did.

‘I can’t believe I’m the one who has to say this, but are we really going to storm out of every meal? Can’t we just stick together for half a minute? This is a reunion. Shouldn’t we start, like, reunioning, or whatever?’ I don’t know why I said it. Maybe seeing the dead man had affected me after all, and I was seeing in Sofia’s exit the ostracism I’d felt for the last three years. Maybe I’d decided who I’d spill it for. Maybe I’d eaten too much bacon.

If a man on fire couldn’t melt snow, my mother’s fury, as she addressed me directly for the first time that weekend, sure could have.

‘The reunion starts when my son arrives.’