‘Mona, I know this is important to you for some reason. But, please. Sylvia’s really upset. I’ve never seen her like that. She was in a bad mood for the rest of the day – pissed off with Ellis. He doesn’t know how to feel.’

I am physically incapable of saying no to her at this precise moment, so I lie. ‘I understand.’ It’s easier to lie and cover it up later.

‘Come for a walk with me,’ she says.

I’m making no progress anyway so I do as she says, follow her down to the boardwalk, sun beginning to set in the cloudless sky after the fog from this morning.

We have an unusual encounter on the way to the boardwalk.

‘Oh, hey, it’s the detective.’ It’s a group of Seasonals, guys who I remember vaguely from the bonfire. They’re laughing. I can’t tell if it’s derisive or not. I don’t really like the attention, either way – and I don’t know how they know to call me that.

I feel Peyton’s eyes on me. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Haven’t ever seen the locals so riled up about anything. They’re all talking about it,’ one says.

They move off, laughing to themselves. ‘Hope you unmask the killer,’ another mumbles as they pass. ‘Scooby dooby doo.’

Peyton and I keep walking in silence. ‘Well. That’s embarrassing.’

Peyton says nothing but I can tell she’s maybe secretly pleased that they might have dissuaded me.

The boardwalk is way busier than it was three nights ago; this is maybe the first real tourist night. We have to weave in and out of the crowd until I follow Peyton down to a ledge above where we’d swum. Tenacious sea grass bursts through some of the cracks on the rocks, brushing against my ankles as I swing my legs. We sit there for a moment. I’m waiting for something to happen; her arm jerks and for a terrible moment I worry she’s going to reach out and grab my hand.

‘Am I in trouble?’ I ask her finally, then, to her silence. ‘It feels like I’m in trouble.’

‘Tell me you care about me.’

I don’t know what to say. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘I don’t even know you.’

Peyton recoils, face etched with, seemingly, genuine hurt, as if this is anything different from what she’d said to me before. ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t care about me.’

‘I care about you.’

‘And tell me you care about Ellis.’

‘I care about Ellis.’

‘Tell me you care about his well-being.’

‘Of course I do. More than anyone else around here, it seems like.’

‘Not more than anyone.’