“It’s a statistical curiosity.” His tone gives no ground whatsoever. “It is curious, I admit that, but you can cobble a theory from any set of data, provided you leave out all contradictory evidence. All the people who’ve died on other days. Months when the weather was absolute rubbish. They conveniently forget those things here. It’s a question of confirmation bias. Somebody should study it, really, but I’m not volunteering to stick my neck out there!” He laughs heartily. “I like it here. I’d rather stay than be shipped off on a bit of driftwood by an angry mob of pensioners.”

I grin along, squinting past the dusty windshield in search of Max. I’ve lost him among the trees.

I’m going to have to go in there. I do not want to go in there. Not after yesterday, not ever again.

John stops the pickup along the edge of the grove, cuts the engine, yanks up the hand brake. We’ve parked in a funny spot outside a fenced area, and the downward slope here is steep. My heels slide when I get out of the truck, and it takes me two swings to get the door to shut.

“You know, the overall census records are actually not unlike other island communities.” John rounds the truck, still expounding, oblivious to my clumsiness. His voice is a comforting, pleasant hum, like a radio playing in a café. “Skye, the Isles of Scilly.”

He strolls easily down the hill, hands in his pockets, as I lope awkwardly after him, my ankles wobbling on a loose rock or three.

“People die everywhere,” he says. “Others move, the population stays much the same. And as far as the weather, I think my predecessor did a fine job demonstrating that it has far more to do with the jet stream than any supernatural intervention.”

He gives a sharp nod to the treetops as if in apology.

I jog up the path to catch up with him, not slipping this time. It’s dry in here and muffled, like a blanket’s been draped over the entire grove. When I draw a breath to reply to John, I’m not even sure my voice will carry.

“But what about the Day? All those identical death dates in the churchyard? Groups of seven.”

It feels cathartic to air my doubts and hear them systematically put to rest. I should have done this a week ago.

“Seven people, no more, no less.” He turns. “I suspect you can chalk that up to somebody doctoring the records. Keeping up tradition is a tradition unto itself.”

My mind immediately lands on that big leather-bound book in Hugh’s study. The names of everyone on Lute written by hand, one by one, Xs and dots.

Doctoring the results. Or engineering them.

John waves at me. “You’re American, so you probably don’t think that way. Everything’s so new over there.”