There was plenty to be done around the house: laundry to fold, firewood to chop, The Buck River Murders to read, a possum to skin and stuff, but the thought of spending the day inside filled Abby with a heavy, mysterious sadness, so instead she decided to head out for another run.

A few minutes into her usual route, her lungs grew hot and raspy, her breathing shallow. If she didn’t take it down a notch she’d be hurting for a week, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. When she eased her stride or slowed down to avoid a clump of driftwood, dark thoughts of Ray caught up with her, clapped down around her shoulders like a wet jacket.

First, Ray had told her he was working on Eileen Betchkie’s house, which Eileen disputed. Then he was crying in the bathroom. Something was up. Something bad, and Abby hoped to God it had nothing to do with another woman.

She arrived at the seawall, stood beneath the Fun Prohibited sign and wanted to retch. She doubled over, gasping for air. She looked out over the water. Fog formed a white wall just beyond the buoys. For a second it felt like the mainland didn’t exist. She watched a pelican emerge from it like magic, drift by overhead, dropping a shit as it passed her.

As she stood, she heard voices. There was a set of old stone steps that led up and over the seawall. On the other side was Beech Tree Landing, a series of concrete boat-launching ramps. That’s where the voices were coming from. She climbed the steps, peeked over the wall, and froze.

‘Holy fucking shit,’ she whispered. Her words caught on an arctic breeze and got carried away.

There were five police cruisers in the expansive bitumen car park. Beyond them, parked across two of the extra-long spaces usually used to fit boat trailers, was a large white van emblazoned with the words Crime Scene Services. Forensics people, dressed in white coveralls and blue paper caps, scurried around with plastic ziplock bags and evidence boxes. Abby scanned the faces of the police, looking out for Bobbi’s, but all she saw were stern, unrecognisable officers.

A police boat cruised in a slow arc around the ramps, bobbing and listing on the water. Two constables stood outside the main entrance to the boat ramps, standing guard. Both wore enormous, formless jackets with reflective strips sewn onto the sleeves. Neither were looking in her direction, but she kept her head down anyway, kneeling on the top step of the wall. It felt as though someone had built a movie set on her island.

She watched a woman step down from the Crime Scene Services trailer, carrying a camera with a long lens and heavy-duty flash attached. She met a cluster of officers at the pier entrance.