The priest approached, hands joined in front of him, smiling. Hard to gauge his age without any hair, but no more than thirty-five. Long eyelashes, conspicuous in the absence of any other hair. Kane wondered how he kept so pale.

“Just curious. Just arrived.”

“Welcome. Feel free to look around, to pray. Ask me if you need anything. We do services twice a week, if you’re interested,” the priest said. “Open every day. We only keep the door closed to stop the donkeys wandering in.”

“Do you get many people attending?”

“A healthy number. Though some would say it’s down to a lack of alternative entertainment.” He smiled. “But perhaps that’s unfair. I hear you’re a historian.”

Kane shouldn’t have felt surprised. His reputation was evidently preceding him. So long as it was Edward Pearce’s reputation, he didn’t mind.

“How do you know?”

“It’s a small island. I’m an amateur historian myself. I wondered if you’d be interested in the church. It took two hundred years to finish. You wouldn’t think it, would you. The spire was initially clad with beaten biscuit tins. I’m actually writing a bit about it. Perhaps you could take a look at some of what I’ve written. It’s very much centered on the Anglican Church abroad. I don’t know if that’s within your field.”

“Of course. It sounds interesting.” Now Kane walked over to the shrine. The photo was the same one he’d seen in the Times. In front of it, people had placed friendship bracelets, lip-gloss, sweets, a condolence book with her name drawn on the front in italic script.

“What happened?”

“No one knows for sure.” The priest’s lips tightened, as if this was all a stranger needed to be told. “It’s a tragedy that has caused a great amount of anguish in this community.”

Kane opened the condolences book.

Petra, you lit this place up.

You had everything before you.

Where did you go?

More than forty pages of entries: hundreds of them. He looked for Connor, couldn’t see him. Most people on the island, though: airmen, technicians, contractors. Far more than could have possibly known her. Lining up with a formal correctness, an overeagerness, as if they were providing alibis.

Solomon’s Supermarket was identified by a rusted A-frame sign outside—YES, WE’RE OPEN . Inside it was larger than Kane expected, but the items on the shelves didn’t add up to much of a meal—cereal, ketchup, concentrated squash, and toothbrushes. A tall Saint Helenian man behind the counter nodded at him.

“Morning.”

“Morning. Are you Solomon?”

“No Solomon here for a while.” He smiled.

Kane smiled back. “I just got here.”

“I know.”