By eleven thirty the following morning I am standing at the edge of the harbour, waiting in line with a number of other passengers who would have once been waiting for my dad’s small ferry. Now double-decked bright boats line up like ducks in a row and a kiosk sells tickets for around-the-island cruises. One thing hasn’t changed, though – there is still only one run a day in winter to Evergreen and it’s leaving in fifteen minutes.

My parents would have hated that a large company took over, but I’m pleased for its generic unfamiliarity. I don’t know how I would have handled seeing someone else in Dad’s place.

In my left hand I clutch a ticket, rubbing its edge with my fingers to the point it is starting to disintegrate.

Someone once told me that the difference between fear and excitement is two inches, and what I once thought of as a flippant remark now feels closer to the truth than ever. Everything I fear about setting foot on Evergreen also excites me, and the two mould together until I can no longer separate them.

From the mainland I can’t see Evergreen. Blocking it are other islands, mostly uninhabited, and Evergreen hides behind them, out of sight. Most of the other passengers will disembark at Brownsea, an island set up for tourists. Hardly any of them venture as far as Evergreen.

Last night I rang the number of a woman named Rachel who was renting out rooms in her house on the island. She didn’t call it a B&B, but I took from her posting she intended as much. I doubted she was busy. Regardless of recent events, January wouldn’t drive many visitors, but still she was reluctant to let me stay.

‘It’s just for three nights,’ I begged.

She pulled in a tight breath. ‘I don’t know what you want to come over here for at the moment anyway. And you’re not police?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But my family lived on the island a long time ago. There are old friends I want to see.’

‘Like who?’ she tested me.

‘Annie Webb,’ I said, thinking of the one person most likely to still be there, if she were still alive. I held my breath as I waited for an answer.

‘I don’t know …’

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘You’ll hardly know I’m there.’

‘Three nights?’

‘Just three.’

‘Fine,’ she huffed, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ and promptly hung up.

I wondered how many paying guests she’d actually ever had. Most of the visitors to Evergreen went because they were looking for an adventure, but there was little to do on the island that couldn’t be done in a day.

Dad often came back after work and relayed the comments he’d overheard, like ‘What a quaint existence’, and ‘Why would anyone want to hide away from the rest of the world?’