Alice turns. His eyes are wide, helpless. ‘It’s hardly your fault.’ She takes his hand, and he pulls her to him. ‘This was about me searching for my past. I was a fool, and I’m scared, Leon,’ she whispers into his chest.

‘It’s going to be OK,’ he says, but his rapid heartbeat tells her he’s worried too. ‘We’ll find a phone, get help.’

‘Are you sure going to the cottage is such a good idea?’ There’s a tremble in her voice. ‘I just thought if we stay in the bar overnight – all together—’

‘But there could be a landline.’ He releases her, looks towards the window. He’s pale, his fair hair tousled. ‘We need to get off the island, Alice. As soon as possible.’

‘I guess.’

They leave the room, and head down the stairs, Alice pulling on her Parka, still damp from earlier.

They stand with Christine, who is togged in her anorak and beanie. The tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock telling them it’s twenty-five to one in the morning. And as soon as Faith appears, they head towards the main entrance.

‘Jeez,’ Alice says, as she opens the door, and the wind grabs it with force. ‘Are we really sure this is a good idea?’ She stands in the doorway, watching the others head into the blustery night, Faith’s ponytail thrashing across her face. ‘It’s getting worse,’ she yells above the wind sweeping through the trees, and rattling the metal sign, confirming Alice’s doubts.

‘At least it’s stopped raining,’ Leon cries.

Alice darts from the doorway to catch them up, and Christine hands her a torch. She flicks it on, slicing the beam through the shadows, her stomach churning as she imagines a killer lurking in the darkness.

They make their way across the front lawn, past the French doors to the bar. Mitch and Lori sit behind the glass, appearing to be lost in their own worlds, Lori’s elegant posture juxtaposed against Mitch’s body slumped in the chair, legs splayed, still knocking back brandy from the bottle.

Alice’s gaze moves away from the window and across the area, past the flattened wire fencing where Leon almost lost his life, imagining her yellow dress floating across the night sky in the wind. She swallows her fear, and takes hold of Leon’s hand.

As they step onwards, she catches sight of an amber glow radiating from the attic window. ‘The light’s on,’ she says to Leon.

He looks up. ‘Is that the attic?’

She nods. ‘You didn’t turn on the light when we were up there, did you, Christine?’ she calls out, trying to make herself heard over the howling wind. But she knows the answer already. When Christine locked the door to the attic room earlier, the light was out. Muddy-brown walls. Grass-green carpet. Outside, inside. She pushes away the invading confusing thought.