06/15/2020

Set in a remote chalet at an exclusive French Alps resort, this tempestuous locked-room mystery from Ware (The Turn of the Key) centers on the 10-person corporate retreat of social media company Snoop. Snoop’s shareholders—cofounders and ex-lovers Topher St. Clair-Bridges and Eva van den Berg, coder Elliot Cross, comptroller Rik Adeyemi, and former secretary Liz Owens (all millennials)—bitterly disagree on whether to sell the business to investors or to seek additional funding and work toward an IPO. The group goes skiing to dispel tension, but then Eva fails to report for lunch. Before chalet employees Erin and Danny can arrange for a search, an avalanche eradicates the exit routes and knocks out power, internet, and phones. After another guest dies, the panicked survivors wonder whether there’s a murderer in their midst. Liz and Erin share the narrative, which Ware rapidly cycles to accelerate pace and amplify suspense. A somewhat contrived denouement does little to diminish the thrill of this claustrophobic, adrenaline-fueled cat-and-mouse game. Agatha Christie fans take note. Agent: Eve White, Eve White Literary (U.K.). (Sept.)

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Chapter 1: Liz LIZ
Snoop ID: ANON101

Listening to: James Blunt / You’re Beautiful

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 0

I keep my earbuds shoved into my ears on the minibus from Geneva Airport. I ignore Topher’s hopeful looks and Eva, glancing over her shoulder at me. It helps, somehow. It helps to shut out the voices in my head, their voices, pulling me this way and that, pummeling me with their loyalties and their arguments to and fro.

Instead, I let James Blunt drown them out, telling me I’m beautiful, over and over again. The irony of the statement makes me want to laugh, but I don’t. There’s something comforting in the lie.

It is 1:52 p.m. Outside the window the sky is iron gray, and the snowflakes swirl hypnotically past. It’s strange. Snow is so white on the ground, but when it’s falling, it looks gray against the sky. It might as well be ash.

We are starting to climb now. The snow gets thicker as we gain height, no longer melting into rain when it hits the window but sticking, sliding along the glass, the windscreen wipers swooshing it aside into rivulets of slush that run horizontally across the passenger window. I hope the bus has snow tires.

The driver changes gear; we are approaching yet another hairpin bend. As the bus swings around the narrow curve, the ground falls away, and I have a momentary feeling that we’re going to fall—a lurch of vertigo that makes my stomach heave and my head spin. I shut my eyes, blocking them all out, losing myself in the music.

And then the song stops.

And I am alone, with only one voice left in my head, and I can’t shut it out. It’s my own. And it’s whispering a question that I’ve been asking myself since the plane lifted off the runway at Gatwick.

Why did I come? Why?

But I know the answer.

I came because I couldn’t afford not to.