‘Heart failure?’ I repeat. ‘At that age? And no one knew there was a problem?’

‘No,’ Annie says, shaking her head vigorously. ‘She had a rare condition. But you mustn’t go asking her parents for any more details. Bob and Ruth never got over her death,’ she murmurs, a shudder rippling through her body, making her shiver.

I look at Annie for a moment longer but she won’t return my gaze. ‘We were so close,’ I say.

‘I remember. You were inseparable.’

‘Maybe Ruth would like to talk to me?’ An image of the woman I’d seen in the online photos hovering on the outskirts of the groups flashes into my head. I can’t imagine how devastated she must have been by her daughter’s death. ‘I’m sure she would,’ I go on. ‘My mum would have given all the time in the world to Jill if it were the other way round.’

‘No,’ Annie says adamantly. ‘Ruth has never got over it. Even seeing you back here will cause her too much pain. Please stay away from both of them. All this business,’ she mutters, ‘I keep telling you, it’s not a good time for anyone, Stella.’

I shake my head, unable to process it all. I have always respected Annie, the whole island does, yet I don’t see how she can expect me to leave without speaking to Ruth. Not now. ‘If only Mum had told me …’ I trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

‘There’s a bench,’ Annie says finally. ‘Up on the cliff above the cove. Her father put it there for her. Maybe you could visit that.’

‘On the cliff?’ I say. ‘But—’ My heart stops as memories of us fill my head. All the times I used to run along as close to the edge as I dared while Jill lingered behind, calling me back nervously.

‘That’s where he wanted it,’ she interrupts. Annie knows as well as I do how scared Jill was of the clifftop, and the fact Bob chose that spot to place a bench in her memory knots in my stomach. ‘And after that, my dear,’ Annie goes on, ‘I really do think it’s best you go home.’

Grief and anger merge in waves as I leave Annie’s house. A cold wind whips through the air and I decide to veer into the shelter of the woods instead of taking the path to the cliffs. Here the air is cooler but stiller, and I wind through the thick trunks, creating my own path, though skirting the edges, too uncertain to delve deeper into them as I’d once have done without a second thought.

Pushing my hands further into my pockets, I carry on until I’m back on the path by the clifftop, where I make my way over to the bench that perches proudly on its edge.