I’d loved that place once, but when I’d turned up on Jill’s doorstep on my last day and she’d suggested going there, I’d frozen. I hadn’t told her why I no longer wanted to return to that spot. I hadn’t told anyone what had happened there only two days earlier. Instead I’d reluctantly agreed to meet her there and had buried my secret. It was the first box I’d shut the lid on.

Further up the path I pause again, this time when I’m at the top of the driveway that leads to Jill’s house. Even if I knew my old friend still lived there I’m not sure I yet have the courage to knock on the door.

My question tingles on the edge of my tongue: Why did you never write, not even once? I’d lost count of the number of letters I sent before I eventually gave up. But now that I am in grasping distance of finding the answer, I find my feet picking up again. I tell myself it is the thought of seeing Bob Taylor that deters me, but I know it is more than that. I know I am still unsure if I’m ready for what I might discover.

In contrast, Rachel’s house, set among a scattering of beach houses a little further along, is less familiar and imposes no vivid memories. I knock loudly on her door as spots of rain begin to fall, and by the time she opens it my hair is wet.

Rachel is at least a head shorter than me and somewhere in her early fifties. Her brown hair streaked with grey is pushed back from her face with a thick navy Alice band. She is wearing a wool cardigan that falls to midway down her calves and, as she peers at me from the other side of large round glasses, she effortlessly gives the impression she isn’t pleased to see me. I offer my name though I’m sure she knows who I am.

‘Come in,’ she says as she lets me into a large but dimly lit hallway. Too much dark mahogany furniture lines the walls and there is little space for us to stand but right in the middle of a red woven rug. ‘I didn’t want any guests,’ she reminds me. ‘I don’t want you staying any more than three nights.’

I shake my head. ‘I won’t,’ I assure her, the unfriendly welcome making me think even three is too many.

‘I double-lock the door at nine in the winter but it’s too dark to be out past then anyway. There are no streetlights on the island,’ she goes on, ‘but I assume you already know that, don’t you? You said you used to live here.’

‘I did. A long time ago.’