Slipping them into her mouth, she takes a large swig of water, followed by the greedy gulps you only do when you’ve been drinking.
Her phone is on the bedside table. She picks it up, carries it over to the window.
A perfect square of summer: blue sky, trees, canary yellow curve of the hammock stretching across the terrace.
Hana takes a photo, flicks through the ones from last night. The first makes her smile: a grinning group shot on the beach, their backs to the water. The image is out of focus, the photographer—Caleb—obviously moving as he’d snapped it.
After the meal they’d gone to the beach as Jo had suggested. No one swam in the end, but they’d dipped their feet in the water, set the world to rights. She’d had some cringingly intense conversation with Caleb, perched on the rocks at the edge of the beach—something about his work, environmental policy. At one point, Jo and Seth had a drunken row that sputtered out as quickly as it began.
The beach interlude ended with a call to Bea that went to voice mail, after which they’d sent her the group shot. Hana smiles, imagining Bea’s grin when she saw it, their sunburned, moon-faced smiles. What did the message below their photo say? Something sloppy, sentimental. Wish you were here. Caleb’s doing kisses down the phone . . .
A text in reply: Guys . . . love you but I’m at a work event. Speak soon.
Hana can picture Bea at this event—busy and solicitous, saying all the right things in just the right tone. This is what she thinks of as Bea 2.0: smart, expensive clothes, discreet jewelry, fair hair swept away from her face. Nothing like the unsure, bookish sister she grew up with, who loathed dressing up.
She keeps swiping: Caleb’s taken a few of the same group shot, but when she reaches the last image, a ripple of disquiet moves through her. He’d obviously snapped the photo as the group had started to disperse, the effort of holding a fixed smile too much. I can’t do it, she remembered Seth laughing.
Hana’s still half smiling, but Jo has turned away. She’s looking at Hana, clearly unaware the photograph is being taken. The expression on her face pulls Hana up short, Jo’s features frozen into a strange mask of something dark.
Hana can’t quite make out what it is. Fear? Hate?
Her thoughts slide to the note that had dropped from Jo’s bag. Maybe there was more to it than she thought.
Walking over to her holdall, she rummages in the side pocket where she’d shoved the letter on the jetty. Carefully smoothing it out between her fingers, she looks again at the words.
Hana,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Her stomach twists. Part of her feels compelled to knock on Jo’s door right now and ask her what it means, but another part of her recoils at the idea, knowing the drama that will inevitably ensue.
Keep calm and carry on.
It’s all she needs to do. One week together and then they can go back to minimal contact. Now that she’s an adult, she can decide how often she sees her sister, the kind of relationship they have.
It’s one of the few good things that came out of what happened. Hana had realized these past few months, after everyone had drifted away, left her alone in her grief, that if she can survive Liam’s death, then she can survive anything.
She’s stronger than she thought.
15
When Elin reaches the top of the steps from the beach, it’s a few minutes to eight.
The retreat is stirring to life; white-shirted staff busy in the restaurant, a group of early swimmers walking toward the beach. It’s clear that some of the guests have clocked something is up. They’re milling around the yoga pavilion with that studied, false nonchalance—not wanting to appear as if they’re staring but doing so anyway.
About to pull on a suit and overshoes, she hesitates, noticing Farrah approaching.
“I take it she’s definitely—”
Elin nods. “A little while, I think.”
Farrah’s mouth tightens before she composes herself, gesturing to the restaurant. “Michael, the man who found her, is waiting in there. You wanted to speak to him . . .”
“That’s right. Give me two minutes. I need to . . .” She gestures at Leon.
“Of course. Come over when you’re ready.”
Slipping the suit and overshoes on, Elin ducks under the tape. Leon’s crouched beside the balustrade, dusting the glass. “All going okay?”
“Fine.” He nods at some vomit a few feet away. “Apart from the occupational hazard.”
“The guy who spotted her?”