Amos took my phone first. Then my wallet, sliding my cards out one by one like he was dealing cards at a table where I'd already lost. My passport came last, plucked from the drawer in my nightstand where I kept it beside Lylah's old birthday cards.

"You'll thank me for this," he said. "Once you're calm."

I didn't ask what calm meant to him. I already knew. He walked me down the back stairs, past the kitchen where Marguerite wouldn't meet my eyes, to the wine cellar door. The hinges groaned. He didn't.

"A few days," he said. "To think."

The door locked with a sound so small it shouldn't have mattered. It mattered.

There was a chair down there, and a single bottle of water on the floor beside it, and racks of bottles worth more than most people's rent, and none of it was mine to drink. I sat in the dark and counted my own breathing because it was the only thing left that still belonged to me.

The intercom clicked on sometime that first night. I hadn't noticed the speaker in the corner before — small, gray, easy to miss. Cheyenne's laugh came through it first, bright and unhurried. Then music. Then the clink of silverware, a dinner being plated, Amos's voice saying something I couldn't make out that made her laugh again.

It clicked off. Then, hours later, it clicked back on. Like someone upstairs kept checking whether I was still listening.

By the second day my mouth had gone dry in a way water didn't fix anymore. By the third, I stopped standing up too fast because the room tilted when I did. I thought about Lylah's hand going cold in mine. I thought that at least she hadn't had time to be this hungry, this small, this erased.

On the fourth day, the door opened. Amos came down the stairs with a folder and a pen, and the light behind him made him look like something arriving from another world.

"Victim impact statement," he said, setting it on my knee like I was a client. "Next of kin requesting leniency for the driver."

I looked at the paper. I looked at him.

"You want me to ask for mercy for the man who killed her."

"I want you to come upstairs," he said. "I want you to eat something. I want this to be over."

My hand shook so badly the pen skittered twice before I could make it write my name. I don't remember deciding to sign it. I remember the shape of my own signature looking like it belonged to someone else, someone who had already given up.

Rafael got a suspended sentence. I watched the news footage of the courthouse steps from a hospital bed where they were putting fluids back into me one bag at a time. Cheyenne wore white. She smiled for the cameras like a bride.

Lylah's funeral was three days after that.

I stood at the grave in a black coat that felt too heavy for my body, and I don't remember most of the service. I remember dirt. I remember my father's face, older than I'd ever seen it. I remember thinking Lylah would have hated how quiet everyone was being, how careful, how nobody was laughing the way she would have wanted.

Then I saw him. A face from another life, standing at the edge of the crowd like he wasn't sure he had the right to be there. Santiago Jordan. I hadn't seen him since juniors, since before Amos, since before I traded snow for silk sheets and called it love. He'd gotten taller. Or maybe I'd just gotten smaller.

He waited until the crowd thinned before he came to me. He didn't offer condolences I could tell he'd rehearsed and discarded.

"The Zurich facility keeps a lane open for you," he said instead. "No conditions. No deadline." He pressed a card into my hand, his fingers steady where mine weren't. "Whenever you're ready. If you're ever ready."

I looked at the card like it was written in a language I used to speak fluently and had since forgotten.

"I'm not that person anymore," I said, and gave it back.

He didn't argue. He just nodded, like he'd expected exactly that answer, and walked away before I could see whatever was in his face.

Amos was watching from the car. I felt it before I turned, the particular weight of his attention, the way it always arrived like a verdict.

He didn't say anything on the drive home. He didn't have to. That week my cards stopped working at the pharmacy. At a gallery opening, when a woman asked how I was holding up, he answered for me — smoothly, warmly, a performance of concern that left no room for my own voice. At dinner, he mentioned, almost gently, that Cheyenne had said something kind about grief, as if I needed her permission to have any.

I sat through all of it with my face perfectly still. I had gotten so good at that. I hated how good I'd gotten.

Amos called it a reconciliation trip.

I packed my ski bag and didn't argue. I told myself that was wisdom. I know now it was just exhaustion wearing wisdom's coat.

Aspen in February is beautiful in the way expensive things are beautiful — aggressively, on purpose. The chalet sat above the tree line with floor-to-ceiling glass and a wine cellar that made ours look modest. I found out on the second night that the guest list had been arranged by Cheyenne. I found out because my place card at dinner was at the far end of the table, beside a business associate's assistant who kept apologizing for being there, and Cheyenne was seated at Amos's right hand in a red dress that still had the tag tucked inside the collar.

I ate my soup. I smiled at the assistant. I watched Amos refill Cheyenne's glass without looking up.

On the third night there was a birthday cake. Twenty-six candles. Everyone sang. I stood near the back of the room with a glass of wine I hadn't touched and thought about Lylah, who would have made a joke loud enough to embarrass me and then squeezed my hand under the table.

The back bowls on the final morning were Amos's idea. He said the fresh snow was too good to miss. He said it like he was doing me a favor.

We were maybe a thousand feet up when I heard it — a sound less like a crack than like the mountain clearing its throat. I'd grown up reading snow. I knew what that sound meant before anyone else turned their heads.

I got maybe four steps before the slab hit.

The world went white and then it went dark and then it went very, very still.

I came to with my left leg pinned under something I couldn't see and a pain in my ribs that sharpened with every breath into something bright and specific. I could feel the cold through my jacket, through my base layer, into the bone. The air pocket around my face was maybe eight inches. I could see nothing but blue-white dark.

Then I heard him above me — Amos, his voice ragged, his hands scrabbling at the snow. I felt the pressure on my leg ease slightly as he pulled at the slab. I heard him breathing hard. I heard him say my name.

He got me ten feet. I could feel the movement, the drag, his grip on my jacket collar. Ten feet toward the ridge, toward air, toward the sound of the helicopter already circling somewhere above the trees.

Then Cheyenne screamed his name.

High on the slope. One sharp syllable. That was all it took.

He dropped me.

Not gently. Not with an apology. He just let go, and I heard his boots crunch away through the snow, and then I heard nothing at all.

The snow settled over me like it had always been waiting.

Forty minutes, they told me later. I was under for forty minutes.

I didn't know that then. Time doesn't move the same way in the dark. It pools. It thickens. I lay there with my ribs grinding on every inhale and I thought, with a clarity I hadn't felt in three years, that I was not going to cry. Not here. Not for him.

There was no performance required of me down there. No dinner table to sit through. No place card at the wrong end of someone else's party. No face to arrange into the correct shape for an audience that had already decided what I was.

Just the cold. Just my own breathing. Just the slow, quiet fact of what had happened settling into me like the temperature — not as a shock anymore, but as a truth I had simply been too busy performing to let myself know.

He dropped me in the snow to carry her to the helicopter.

He dropped me.

I thought about Lylah's hand going cold. I thought about a wine-stained medal and a locked door and a pen shaking in my hand over a statement I should never have signed. I thought about three years of dinners I'd cooked and closets I'd locked and smiles I'd manufactured for judges who'd already scored me.

I thought about a card pressed into my hand at a graveside. *Whenever you're ready.*

The rescue dog found me by sound — the tap I managed against the ice with two fingers, barely anything, just enough. They dug me out into grey afternoon light and the cold hit my face like a slap that I was grateful for.

Amos was already at the base lodge. He had a blanket around Cheyenne's shoulders and a cup of something warm in his hand. He looked up when they brought me in on the stretcher. Something moved across his face. I don't know what it was. I didn't care anymore.

I looked at him from the stretcher with two cracked ribs and a leg that would need six weeks and a face I had finally stopped arranging for anyone else's benefit.

I had made my decision under the snow.

The marriage was already dead. It had been dead for a long time. I'd just been the last one still standing at the grave, keeping vigil for something that wasn't coming back.

I was done keeping vigil.

I closed my eyes and let the medics do their work, and somewhere under the pain and the cold and the white Aspen sky, I thought of a training facility in Zurich with a lane kept open, no conditions, no deadline — and for the first time in three years, I let myself want it.