I’ve practised so thoroughly that I’ve memorised the content that goes with each slide. I go on autopilot with my speech, blabbering on about the rate of regrowth and the different coral species present in the specific location where the butterfly wrasse were spotted.

I arrive at the slide with Derek’s picture. Here is where I go off script, the only piece of my speech I hadn’t prepared with Millie.

‘Um,’ I say, hesitating for the first time. I’m tempted to shield my eyes from the harsh lights, but I keep my hands at my sides, grasping the clicker a little tighter in my right hand.

I take a deep breath.

‘I know it doesn’t matter but I actually didn’t take this photo,’ I start out. Just like the rest of my speech, the audience doesn’t react, so I forge ahead. ‘I wasn’t an employed marine biologist when I went on the trip where most of this research stems from, so my certification wasn’t up to date. And the photographer was a hobbyist aquatic photographer. I went on the trip for my sister, the lead researcher on this presentation, to see if I could find the butterfly wrasse for her. I want to ensure I acknowledge the situation upfront so that in the future the integrity of this research will not be in question. While we are not explicitly certifying the existence of the butterfly wrasse, we are providing the photographic evidence for you all to come to your own conclusions.’

I know Millie is going to kill me for not getting her approval before I did this, but I felt like I had to make some things right. She never told her work explicitly who took the photo, nor was she passing it off as proof, so she can’t really get in trouble, but the acknowledgement that the photo wasn’t taken by a certified marine biologist definitely derails the presentation.

I take another deep breath. The audience fidgets in their seats, bored or unconcerned, I don’t know which. It feels anticlimactic. I click the button and move to the next slide, ready to talk about banana farms.

Before I can start talking about pollution, I see a tentative hand in the audience. For a moment, I wonder if it’s someone scratching the back of their head. I clear my throat. Then the hand shoots up more definitively. I process that it’s a large hand. One that belongs to a tanned forearm. I can feel my heart rate quicken. It can’t be . . . can it?

‘Yes?’ I call out to the dark crowd.

As soon as I hear the rumblings of his voice, a shiver runs down my spine. I would know that voice anywhere. It’s him.

Chapter 32

‘Ahem.’ He clears his throat.