by Ruth Ware
“I don’t know,” I say at last. “What about you?”
“We could sue, you know,” Danny says conversationally. “I mean, quote unquote generous redundancy package is all very well, but you were bloody near killed in the line of duty. I reckon that deserves something a bit more than a few weeks’ pay and a box of fucking chocs.”
“I don’t want to sue,” I say reflexively, without even thinking about it, but as the words leave my mouth I am sure of the rightness of them. I don’t want to. It was hard enough going through all this once. I am not putting myself through it all again in a court of law, let alone dragging in Topher, Tiger, Rik, and everyone else to give evidence.
“Nah, neither do I really,” Danny says, looking down at the screen, with a little sigh. “Coulda done with the squids though. Well, as me old ma would say, if wishes were horses and all that.” He sighs again, and then says, “Shall I serve up? Butternut squash soup with hazelnut gremolata and charred fougasse.”
“Sounds delicious,” I say, trying for a smile. “I can’t wait.”
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
Listening to:
Snoopscribers:
After lunch Danny and I sit down in front of the TV and I get out my phone. I’ve become slightly addicted to watching my Snoopscribers tick upwards. There’s nothing like news getting around that you’ve been almost killed to send your numbers rocketing. And I like checking up on Topher, Rik, and the others too. Rik’s username is Rikshaw and he doesn’t have nearly as many Snoopers as Topher, but I like his music taste a lot more. He was listening to some amazing Cuban rap the other day.
But when I open up the app, there’s nothing there, just a blank home page.
For a second I think I’ve accidentally logged out, but no—I’m still signed in, and there is my profile picture in the top right, Little My from the Moomins scowling out of the screen. But there is nothing in my recently played list, no suggestions of people to follow, no Snoopscriber list—in fact even my numbers have disappeared. Is the internet down again? But I remember when that happened before, and it wasn’t like this. Have I been banned?
“Danny,” I say. Danny is scrolling through Netflix. He speaks, without looking away from the screen.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“Danny, is your Snoop working?”
“Yeah, why?” he says, and then opens up the app to check. “No, wait, what? I’ve lost all my subscriptions and all my favorites. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Has this ever happened before? Have we been banned?”
“No…” Danny is scrolling through menus. “No, I don’t think so… I mean, there’s nothing they can ban you for. It’s not like Twitter where you can post far-right shit. There’s nothing you can do apart from follow people. I think… I think this did happen before, ages ago, when they were starting up and they didn’t have enough servers. I remember a few days where the whole app just crashed, and it was like this. Just a blank screen. Maybe they’re having server problems their end?”
“Maybe.”
I pull up Google, and type in is snoop down.
Article after article comes up. BREAKING reads the first one. British tech start-up Snoop files for administration.
And another one: Snoop users received a rude shock when they logged into their favorite app today to be met with a blank screen, after the company shut down servers following a declaration of bankruptcy by founder and CEO Topher St. Clair-Bridges.
“Fuck.” I can see from his face and the way he looks up at me that Danny has just made the same search, and is reading the same article—or one just like it. “Fuck, they’ve gone under. Rik was right.”
I let out a long breath, and a tension that I didn’t realize I had been holding rolls off me. It’s not that I’m glad that Snoop has gone bankrupt—far from it. The thought of Inigo, Tiger, Carl, and all the rest of them out of a job, not to mention all the people I never met behind the scenes—that gives me zero pleasure. But it sets my mind at rest over a decision that has been gnawing at the back of my mind for three weeks now. What to do about Eva’s video.
Because that was the one question that we never resolved before the Snoop team left St. Antoine. On the one hand, there was Topher’s strenuous argument that telling the truth would make no one better off, and would damage Snoop beyond repair, and probably cost hundreds of innocent people their jobs.
But on the other hand, that equation was precisely what made keeping the secret so uncomfortable. We were not doing what was right, we were doing what was profitable, a fact that Tiger stressed again and again in the increasingly bitter arguments that repeated themselves the last few nights of their stay in the hotel in St. Antoine.
“Are you telling me,” Topher raged, “that if it weren’t for Snoop you’d put Eva’s family through all that? Would you deliberately add another body to Liz’s account, open all those old wounds that poor man’s family thought they laid to rest years ago, torment Arnaud with something he never needs to know? Is all of that really worth sacrificing for the truth to come out when everyone concerned is already dead?”
“No!” Tiger cried. “But that’s the point, we’re not weighing all that against the truth, we’re weighing Snoop against the truth, that’s what makes this so problematic! Topher, you can’t go through life expecting everyone to sacrifice every principle they have for your company’s vision—it doesn’t work like that. It just makes you sound like an arrogant entitled—”
“Entitled, entitled, fucking entitled!” Topher shouted over her. “I am so bloody sick of that word! It’s become a fucking stick to beat white men with. Do you know what entitled actually means, Tiger? It means you deserve something, that you are legally due it, for whatever reason. Think about that next time you talk about someone being entitled.”
And then he stormed out.
Now, three weeks later, I do think about it. I think about what entitled really means. About the fact that the unknown executive’s family are entitled to know the truth about their son and brother. About the fact that Eva’s innocent baby daughter is entitled to grow up without the shadow of her mother’s actions hanging over her. And I think about the fact that the dead are entitled to be left in peace.
Topher is entitled, and that’s the truth. Entitled in the way that Tiger meant. He has gone through life taking, and taking, and taking, just as Eva did. They used people like their own personal chess pieces. Employees, investors, friends, relations—they took and they took from all of them. And they never accepted responsibility for the harm they caused.
I think about what responsibility means.
I think about guilt.
I think about moving on.
ERIN
Iam up in my room, packing, when the email comes through. I don’t know what I was expecting—Kate, maybe, with some last-minute details about our redundancy packages, or HR with some more legal disclaimers to sign. It’s neither of those. And I don’t recognize the email address.
But the subject line reads Sorry, and so I click through.
I scan first to the bottom of the email to see who it’s from—and the name there makes me do a double take. Topher. What the hell is he emailing me for?
I frown. Then I scroll back up to read what he’s actually sent.
Dear Erin.
I expect by now you’ll have seen in the papers that Snoop has gone under. Fucking vulture capitalists. When you’re hot they can’t get their tongues far enough down your throat—and when you actually need them, you might as well have herpes.
If Eva was here she’d be saying I told you so, I expect, but she’s not—and so I can’t even give her that small satisfaction.
I got your email off the user database before we got locked out. I know. Don’t shop me. But listen, I wanted to say… oh fuck it. I don’t know. I’m sorry, or some bullshit like that. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you, but mainly, I’m sorry for being such a
fucking prick about Alex and Will. I keep thinking back to that afternoon at the chalet when I realized who you were, and—well, look, I can’t take the words back, but I never apologized for saying them in the first place, so that’s what this is about.
I’m not very good at saying sorry. I haven’t had much practice, to tell you the truth, so I’ll just come out with it. Sorry. Alex and Will—they were good blokes. They didn’t deserve to have that happen to them, and nor did you. And I’m fucking sorry for what I implied—I don’t know how much you overheard, you were out of the room at the time, but I said some pretty shitty stuff in the heat of the moment, and I’m not proud of that.
Because here is the thing—now that the dust has settled, and I’ve had some time to come to terms with stuff, I get it. I get what losing people like that does to you. Eva—Elliot—they weren’t blood, but they were the nearest thing to it. Elliot and I came up through the prep school system together and Eva—I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Even after we broke up, we never really severed that connection.
So I get it now. I get why you didn’t tell us. I get why you couldn’t leave.
I think about them all the time. About Elliot, being postmortemed in some French morgue. About Eva, still up there, frozen in the mountain passes like Sleeping Beauty. And about Ani too, I guess. Fuck.
Anyway—that’s all really. I just wanted to say it one last time.
Sorry.
Topher
x
PS I just wanted to tell you, that file—I handed it all to the police. It felt like the right thing to do in the end. And for what it’s worth, I did it last week. Before all this happened. It’s not why Snoop went under—I’d like to say it was, but it wasn’t. But I wanted you to know.
When I look up from the screen, I’m surprised to find my cheeks are wet. And although I don’t know what to say, I hit reply and sit, for a long time, my fingers just hovering over the keys. And then I type. Just eight words. And I really, really hope they are true.
Dear Topher, it’s going to be all right.
ERIN
“Oh, mate.” Danny’s arms are around my neck, his face is buried in my shoulder. “Gonna miss you, you stupid cow.”
“I’m going to miss you too.” I hug him back, feeling his strong shoulders, hard beneath his down jacket, smelling his permanent scent of French cooking—of simmering wine-rich stews, and melting butter, and sautéed garlic and all good things.
“You gonna be all right?”
I nod. Because for the first time in a long while… I think I am.
“I have to go home,” I say, and I mean it this time. Not home, St. Antoine, but home to England, where Will’s grieving parents and my own family have been waiting patiently for me to make peace with my ghosts.
I have been alone with them for so long, listening to the Will and Alex in my head, trying to come to terms with what happened, with what I did—trying to come to terms with the responsibility of having said those four little words, Let’s go off-piste.
Lying there in the snow with Liz, feeling her life ebbing away beneath my fingers, I realized—I can’t keep running anymore. And maybe that’s okay.
“And are you going to be all right?” I ask. In the distance the coach is coming, I can hear the sound of its snow tires against the plowed road. “What are you going to do? Try for a job in one of the other chalets?”
“Oh,” Danny says, and to my surprise, he’s gone a little pink. The tips of his ears, just visible in spite of his beany hat, are tinged with rose. “Oh yeah, well, actually, I’ve got a place lined up.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.” He coughs, a little awkwardly. “Um, you remember that B and B the police put us in?”
“The one with the shit cassoulet? Of course I remember!”
“Yeah, well, they’ve sacked their chef. And, well, um, well, a mate put in a word for me.”
“A mate?” I am grinning broadly now. “A mate? Would that mate by any chance be sexy Eric the landlady’s son? Monsieur Piña Colada from Le Petit Coin?”
Danny is blushing so furiously that I can’t help prodding him in the ribs, making him laugh.
“Oh, Danny! What did you have to do to earn that?”
“Never you mind.” Danny’s cheeks are glowing, and he’s half glowering, half grinning back, but I can see the happiness radiating out of him. “Bit of nepotism never did no one any harm.”
“I very much doubt it was nepotism,” I say. “One taste of your cassoulet and Eric would be mad not to snap you up.”
I want to know more. I want to know everything, but now the bus is nearly here, and there’s no time. I kiss Danny on the cheek and he picks up my other bag and when the coach draws up, he hands it to the guy in charge of loading the luggage.
“Look after her,” he says in French to the driver as I make my way carefully up the steps. I don’t need a crutch anymore, but my ankle is still in the Aircast. “She’s not as tough as she looks.”
“Bien sur,” the driver calls back, and winks at me.
I am sliding into my seat when I hear Danny calling something through the thick window, and I pop open the little vent at the top of the pane and kneel up on the seat to look down at him.
“What is it?”
“I forgot to say—download Choon!”
“Choon?”
“It’s the new Snoop, mate. Only better. C, H, double O, N.”
“Choon. Got it,” I call back. And then the coach begins moving and I shut the window. It picks up speed, and I’m waving to Danny, and he’s waving to me, and kissing his hand, and I feel a tear tracing down my cheek.
He’s calling something through the glass, but I can’t hear what.
“I can’t hear you!” I shout. My face is crumpling. I swipe at the tears on my cheek, feeling the tight ripple of the fading scar slick beneath my knuckles. “I love you!” But we’re too far up the road, and I know he didn’t hear either.
I sink back into my seat, feeling my heart ache for everyone I’ve lost, everything I’m leaving behind in the mountains. Another tear rolls down my face, and for a minute I think I’m not going to be able to hold it back—the tears are going to come whether I want them to or not, and I’m going to bawl my heart out on the bus. But then my phone gives a single beep.
It’s a text message. From Danny.
CHOON, mate. Oh—and my ID, it’s DANNYBOI. Luv ya.
ERIN
Choon ID: Little-My
Followers: 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is for the most part a selfish, lonesome thing, but I cannot stress enough the extent to which publishing is a team effort—and the tireless teams of editors, publicists, marketeers, designers, sales reps, rights people, production editors, and everyone else behind the scenes are the unsung heroes of the book world, along with the booksellers and librarians who take care of our efforts after they have left the doors of the publishing house. The fact that this book made it from my head into your hands is down to them, and for that I cannot say a large enough thank you.
To Alison, Liz, Jade, Sara, Jen, Maggie, Noor, Sydney, Aimee, Bethan, Catherine, Nita, Kevin, Richard, Faye, Jessica, Rachel, Sophie, Mackenzie, Christian, Chloe, Anne, Anabel, Abby, Mikaela, Tom, Christina, Jane, Sophie, Jennifer, Kathy, Carolyn, and everyone at Simon & Schuster and PRH, my heartfelt thanks. And to the booksellers, librarians, bloggers, readers and reviewers—I cannot name you all, but you are the reason I keep getting to do this, and I thank you all every day.
While the characters and situations in this book are all my own invention, I was shameless in picking the brains of others to create Snoop—so thank you to Joe, James, and James for giving me advice on everything from musical playlists to shareholders agreements.
To Eve and Ludo, I literally could not do this without you.
To Carmen Sane and my fabulous writer friends, you are funny, wise, wonderful, and filthy people and I would get a lot more work done without y
ou but would have much less fun.
To Jilly, Ali and Mark—thank you for being the best skiing support team, media assistants, publicists, and drinking companions. And of course for making me ski the Secret Valley (though not at night).
And last and best thanks always to my dear family, for everything.
One by One
Ruth Ware
This reading group guide for One by One includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Introduction
The #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Turn of the Key and In a Dark, Dark Wood returns with another suspenseful thriller set on a snow-covered mountain.
Getting snowed in at a beautiful, rustic mountain chalet doesn’t sound like the worst problem in the world, especially when there’s a breathtaking vista, a cozy fire, and company to keep you warm. But what happens when that company is eight of your coworkers . . . and you can’t trust any of them?
An off-site company retreat meant to promote mindfulness and collaboration goes utterly wrong when an avalanche hits; the corporate food chain becomes irrelevant and survival trumps togetherness. Come Monday morning, how many members short will the team be?
Topics and Questions for Discussion
1. Erin and Danny have a strong and supportive relationship from the beginning of the book. Before opening the chalet to guests, they have a tradition of swimming together. Why do you think this is important for them to have this time alone? Have you ever had a confidant that you can rely on like Erin did with Danny?
2. Erin and Liz are both used to being outsiders. Why do you think the author chose these two characters be the ones to tell this story? What do you think the experience would look like through Danny’s eyes? What about Eva’s or Topher’s perspectives?