‘They were interested in the friendship bracelet I made. You were wearing it in a photo. They asked me to write them a list of everyone who had one.’ Come to think of it, I don’t recall Bonnie ever wearing it, but I pick up the photo again to see it for myself, tied around her wrist.

Bonnie doesn’t speak.

‘Did you hear me?’ I say.

‘Yes. I heard you. Why do they want that?’

‘I don’t know, but it means—’ What does it mean? We know who the body is? We know the person who killed her?

‘It means nothing. They’re probably looking into loads of things right now,’ she snaps, but there is no conviction in her words.

‘I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. I feel so …’ I pause, searching for the right words – like I should be there instead.

‘Stop obsessing over it,’ Bonnie says. ‘Every conversation we’ve had this weekend is about the bloody island. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.’

Her reaction doesn’t surprise me, but the news has tipped me off kilter and, while Bonnie might want to shut out her thoughts, I haven’t been able to. I can’t stop my mind from going to places I’ve always avoided and now all the boxes I’d once locked away are rising to the surface. There have always been many questions I’ve wanted answers to but have never been brave enough to pursue.

‘Bon,’ I start, cautiously, ‘the way we left, those last few days—’ I break off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Still not knowing if I’m sure I want to.

‘What?’

‘It’s just – is there anything you remember about it that I don’t?’

‘Of course there isn’t. What the hell would I know?’

A lot more than me, I think. She was six years older, more aware. ‘We never really spoke about anything …’

‘Because there’s nothing to speak of,’ she says. ‘And don’t go bringing up why we left again. They told us they needed the money that Dad’s new job would bring in. Clearly the ferry was making a pittance. I don’t know why you can’t accept that.’

I don’t believe you can, either, I think as Bonnie reels off the facts like she’s learnt them by heart. I know this means she is holding back on me. But then, aren’t I holding back on her too?

When I hang up, I pick up the photo that had caught the policeman’s attention. It’s one of the five of us, taken that last summer. I look at it closely, at Mum and Dad’s smiling faces, his arm slung over her shoulder, her hand clasping his.

What happened to us all?