‘Will you be speaking to the rest of my family?’ I ask, bringing his gaze back to me as he reaches for a frame and holds it up.

‘We will.’

‘My dad’s—’ I start, but he interrupts me as he peers closer at the photo.

‘This is your sister?’

‘It is.’ I shuffle to the edge of the chair again.

He taps his finger against the glass of the frame and turns to Killner who gets up to join him. ‘This bracelet she’s wearing,’ he goes on as I stand too and take the photo from him. ‘Do you remember it?’

‘Yes. I made it,’ I say.

His head snaps towards me.

‘It’s a friendship bracelet. I made a few of them the summer we left. I sold them.’

‘Can you remember who to?’

‘God, no, I mean, just some of the girls.’

‘Could you write me a list of who you recall having one?’ he asks.

‘Well, yes, I suppose,’ I say.

He smiles again but it no longer feels genuine and this time, when he tells me once more these really are just routine questions and there’s nothing for me to worry about, I no longer believe him. ‘Thank you for your time,’ Walton says, handing me a card and asking me to get in touch when I’ve written my list.

Once they’ve left, I watch them through my living-room window as they chat to each other by their car, PC Walton laughing at something his colleague says. My hands tremble as I call Bonnie and I consider the thought that, deep down, there might be a tiny part of me that relishes being drawn into what has happened because it links me to the island again.

But as Walton looks up at my window, it vanishes as quickly as it came, and I’m left with an unnerving dread that one of my bracelets could be in any way involved.

‘Can you hear me?’ I ask as Bonnie picks up, static fuzzing in my ear. ‘Where are you?’

‘Tesco. And I’ve got hardly any reception. Hold on.’ I wait for a moment until she comes back on the line. ‘Is that better?’

‘A little. I’ve just had the police round.’

‘Luke said they’ve called at ours. What do they want?’

I relay their questions as she drops things into her trolley.

‘So they’re making sure no one’s lying,’ she says. ‘Why do you sound so worried?’

‘Lying about what?’ I ask, ignoring her question.

‘Who was or wasn’t on the island, I suppose.’

I finally hear them drive off and I retreat from the window. ‘I don’t like this,’ I admit. ‘Bon, I think – I don’t know, I get the feeling we might have been there when it happened.’

‘They’re just asking questions,’ she says, sighing. ‘They’re probably speaking to everyone who’s ever been there. Why are you panicking?’