I took the food upstairs and ate alone, sitting at the table in my bedroom, with the window wide open and the curtain tied back, watching the hotel gardener water blood-red geraniums in their pots around the brilliant blue pool, watching the light catch on the plume of bright water that arced from the mouth of the hose. There had been times in my life when I’d have relished the opportunity to stay in a hotel like this one, to look out of this window and enjoy this view. Right now, it was the last place on earth I wanted to be.

There was a Eurospin store on the outskirts of Porta Sarina where we stopped on our way back to the villa. Inside, it was more like a warehouse than a supermarket, noisy, overcrowded and dark, smelling of cardboard and decaying vegetables. We filled the trolley with fresh and tinned food, bottles of water and beer, biscuits, boxes of matches, candles and cleaning supplies.

Joe paused by a display of sleeping bags.

‘There might not be any bedding in the villa, and these are cheap,’ he said.

‘We’re going to stay at the villa?’

‘We don’t want to be traipsing back round the bay every night, spending a fortune on hotel rooms.’

‘But…’

‘What?’

I was remembering the sensation of being watched; the conviction that someone, or something, was inside the villa already; the feeling of being a trespasser or usurper inside the walls of that lovely, lonely, abandoned place.

‘It makes sense to stay there,’ said Joe.

He was right, but apart from the unease I felt deep in my bones, I also disliked the prospect of staying in the Villa della Madonna del Mare, knowing that Anna had spent so much of her life there, knowing how much it was her villa. But Fitz was right. Anna DeLuca was dead and the sooner we cleared out the villa, the sooner I could leave it, and her, behind.

As we headed to the checkout, we heard a call and turned to see a small, slender-boned woman of about my age coming towards us. She was heavily pregnant, wearing patterned leggings beneath an over-washed cotton dress and dirty tennis shoes.

‘Joey DeLuca!’ she called. ‘Is that really you?’

‘Valentina?’ Joe asked. ‘Valentina Esposito!’

The woman put down her wire basket and half ran, half waddled towards Joe, and he held out his arms to greet her, a wide smile, like the smiles I remembered from long ago, brightening his face. They embraced, he leaning down to hug her with a warmth and enthusiasm that I hadn’t seen since I arrived in Sicily.

I stepped back, closer to the shelves, to give them space.

‘You look amazing, Valentina!’ Joe said, straightening up. ‘But what are you doing here? I thought you and Salvo moved to the States!’