It’s six and I’m already awake; with a ten-minute walk to the diner, enough time for me to get ready. I pull on my khakis as quietly as I can manage, casting a sideways glance at sleeping Peyton, aware of my nakedness. Her bare leg hangs over the side of the bed, blanket twisted around her like a Grecian drape, the light filtering through the still-dirty balcony window in bits. After the comedown time from Saturday (the revelations about the island, my time here, Ellis) spending Sunday with her was easy and light.

But of course I’m thinking about the case. About Ellis, and Sylvia, and Roxy’s empty folder in the police station. About the whole town concealing an unconcealable truth.

I’m about to leave when Peyton groans and sits up behind me.

‘Are you alive?’ I ask.

She moans, holding her hands to her lower back. ‘Christ. Not for much longer if the mattress keeps doing that to my spine. I’m getting old. Whoa,’ she says when she sees I’m dressed. ‘What time is it?’

‘Quarter past six.’

‘Yeesh.’ She props herself up on her elbows, one eye screwed shut. ‘I like your khakis. Real prep school douchebag chic.’

‘You should actually shut up because you have to wear them too.’

She shrugs. ‘Sylvia lets us wear whatever we want. No khakis for me. Enjoy your day, Dead Poet Society.’ Meanwhile, I’m watching her mouth, which turns up as she speaks, even when she’s half-asleep.

‘Did they even wear khakis in –’

‘Leave this place.’

‘Gah.’

I gather my things and shut the door behind me, smiling a little to myself. Suddenly I’m thinking about her lips and then I’m not thinking about her lips and the day goes on.

The walk is assisted in part by Google Maps and some cold water fished out of our mini-fridge. God, it’s already hot. I curse the dress code – and myself, for choosing what now seems like a pair of unreasonably thick khaki pants.

The diner is off the main strip, sandwiched between two residential blocks – more of a local spot, which is why they only needed one extra hire to handle it, apparently.

Then the diner’s in view and the seriousness of this all comes flooding back to me, to the bomb that was going to roll in and knock the whole thing off its hinges. I was going to learn this island and its one hundred and eighty-two inhabitants from the inside out. Over half of the island was over age sixty-five. I considered age ten in 1986 to be the cutoff of potentially knowing any useful information, so that meant around seventy per cent of the island would know.