And Mary Anne makes up half of the names on the police report. I decide not to ask Mary Anne or Archie pointedly about anything today – probably not even for the first week. I need to gauge everyone first, and their limits; who might have a motive for what. With the whole summer to pick them apart, barrelling head first into interrogation, I decide, wouldn’t be wise.

The front door of the diner is locked, the only light from inside coming from the kitchen. Jiggling the doorknob a couple of times makes enough noise to make myself known, I figure, and before long, it’s her – Mary Anne, apron and blue short-sleeve button-up, emerging from the kitchen. She unlocks the door without pleasantries and turns away; I assume I’m expected to follow her.

When she speaks, slightly crooked gradient teeth slip from beneath thin lips to say, ‘Welcome back. You’re late.’

‘My packet said six thirty.’

‘Six thirty means six fifteen.’

Of course it does. ‘Right. Sorry. I’ll be here at six fifteen tomorrow.’

Mary Anne grunts.

If nothing else, The Island Spot is clean; the black-and-white tiled floor shines and, as far as I can tell, the spongy sea-green booths look relatively unworn. Quiet, muffled clanking drifts through from the kitchen (not a Seasonal, I don’t think; I met two others at the bonfire who were placed here but I don’t think our shifts are going to overlap). There’re only six booths in total – I count them – not including the small bar, which has five stools. A variety of ocean-themed tat adorns the walls, shells and buoys and what looks like pictures of Sandown taken from decades ago.

‘You’ve got food-service experience,’ she says, as I look around. It’s not a question.

Food service. My application. ‘Yes,’ I lie. I am, however, a quick enough learner to make this not seem like a lie. I found a poorly designed website for the diner that included a menu, which I’ve already memorized. Not that this is even the sort of place where you had to do that, anyway; seems more like coffee, grits, smile, done.

‘First year, you said?’

‘Yep.’

Mary Anne wanders back into the kitchen and she hasn’t told me to but I figure I should follow her. This is the source of the clanking from before – Archie. He’s washing dishes in a substantial industrial sink. I say, ‘Morning,’ but Archie doesn’t acknowledge me, either, and I wonder if I’m a ghost, which Mary Anne must notice because she explains, ‘They say it’s early-onset dementia,’ like it’s the least inflammatory piece of information in the world, as if she was merely providing the context of a photograph. Archie doesn’t even flinch. I do.

‘Oh, gosh.’ I don’t know what to say.