“What are you doing?” I yell.

Camilla’s words tumble out as she struggles to catch her breath. “I couldn’t let you come here alone. Louise went to a friend’s for tea, you took so long, I was afraid, I saw you, and him...”

We both stand and stare. Birds flutter in the branches, making us both jump. Camilla bends down and picks up the large stone as if she thinks Greg (or someone) is going to attack her. I hold my breath as she holds it above him. There is silence and stillness apart from the running water and a breeze in the trees. She throws the stone into the river.

“We don’t have long,” she says.

I still expect Greg to sit back up, splutter, come after us, do something. Nothing. Through the flowing water, I see green moss being tugged downstream, dancing in the current. Stones and debris rest on the sandy bottom. It’s...mesmerizingly beautiful.

I pick up the fallen branch and chuck it into the water, watching it float away as innocently as a Pooh stick.

I wish I’d watched more true crime. There’s something more we should be doing to cover our tracks, I know there is. Theft.

“We have to steal something,” I say out loud.

Camilla ignores me, remains standing still, eyes wide, staring at Greg. She’s looking at him in hatred, not fear. I grab her by the shoulders and give her a shake.

“Steal something! We’ve got to take something.”

We both look around.

“His wallet?” she says.

I don’t want to go through his pockets because I’ll be sick—I can’t touch him. It comes to me: his camera. It’s easy to find, just inside the entrance to his tent. I shove it in my backpack and we both turn and walk away as fast as we dare.

The pain in my abdomen is gnawing, viselike.

Camilla stops. “The knife!”

I look down at her bare hands, half expecting to see them covered in blood.

“You’ll have to go back and get it,” I say.

“I don’t want to.”

“You have to. I’m not.”

I bend over and clutch my stomach as I wait.

Halfway back, there is a rushing noise in my ears. I stop to be sick, but nothing comes up.

As we approach the guesthouse, I can’t stop shivering. I’ve read so many stories where this type of thing happens, just one mistake, one wrong turn, and a whole life, or lives, can be completely upended. It can’t be happening to me. I won’t let it.

We go in through the back door.

I pull off Nina’s old wellies. They were too big anyway, I must destroy these, get some new ones of my own, the right size next time. It’s funny how, despite the trauma, my mind is quick to figure out ways to self-preserve.

Still, I throw up into the sink.

Camilla puts the kettle on. My teeth chatter. She gets a throw off the sofa and wraps it around both of us. We both sit there, shivering.