The beach faces the mainland, the arrival dock and lighthouse to our left and the jagged peaks of the north side of the island to our right. Then there’s the bonfire, tall as me, a couple of guys absently tending it, tossing things into the fire that ought not to be burned – my inhalations are laced with a distinctly metallic tinge.

Everything makes me think of Roxy. The electricity in the air, the rhythm of the music, some thudding beat from a song I can’t place, the people, wired and alive.

Peyton recognizes someone at the fringes and drags me over by my hand. I struggle to get my footing on the pebbles and worry about spraining my ankle.

The boy we’re headed towards glances to the police cruiser on the street to the side where Booker and another officer are parked, chatting, and takes a lightning-fast swig from a steel flask he retrieves from his coat pocket.

‘Excuse me, sir, can I see some ID?’ Peyton shouts, and the kid looks like he might’ve imploded, but relaxes when he sees her. Still, casts a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone heard. ‘Naughty.’

‘Idiot,’ he says, as Peyton nicks the flask and takes a swig herself. He nods towards me with a grimace, still reeling from the sip. ‘Oh. It’s your torture victim.’

Peyton introduces me properly – this is Liam, the boy from before, the one she’s not-seeing. He’s of average height with a square face and dark eyes, and has a cool, easy lilt to his voice that most girls would find attractive.

‘Welcome, fresh meat,’ he says.

I smirk. ‘For who?’

‘Me,’ Peyton says under her breath, and snickers.

I’m not the only new kid, but everyone else has confidently settled into the roles of the island and I’m here, straining against the thing – the tide, literally, the foamed edge of the sea not quite swelling around my feet but close enough for me to be aware of it. A small and unexpected part of me wonders what this experience would have been like if I hadn’t come with a motive.