Elin nods. “Roughly what time did you finish having drinks?”
“About eleven thirty. She said she was going to head to the villa, surprise them. I pointed her in the right direction and left her to it.”
Eleven thirty. They had her on the CCTV at the barrier at one a.m. What did she do during the time between leaving Tom and when she fell? From what the family said, she never made it to the villa.
“Did she take her luggage with her?”
“I assumed she had.” He frowns. “You haven’t found it?”
“No.”
“It might still be in the meeting room.” He inclines his head toward the main lodge. “I can show you where it is.”
“Please.” Elin starts pushing back her chair.
“Wait,” Tom says. “Before we go, there is something: when you asked if anything seemed odd . . . it’s only just come to me. Just before she left, she got a message on her phone. She said she needed to call someone. I left her to it, but it sounded like she was pretty upset.”
Elin mulls over what he’s said with a nagging sense of disquiet.
She can’t shake the feeling that she’s missing something about what’s happened here, a vital part of the narrative.
22
Hana watches Jo walk over to Seth and Caleb, who are standing by the breakfast buffet, plates piled high with sticky pastries, sourcing food no one wanted but Seth insisted they get. Keep their energy up. It’s not that at all; it’s a distraction. A way to avoid processing what’s happened.
Hana can’t blame him. She can’t process it either: Bea’s dead. Bea was here, on the island, and now she’s dead. Nothing about it seems real.
“I keep going over it, Han.” Maya swivels the silver ring on her finger. “What it must have felt like, to go over that drop. When I’m climbing, sometimes I get this sensation, as if I’m about to fall. All part of the rush, but going over this, she must have been so bloody scared.” Her voice cracks.
Hana takes her hand in hers. “I know, doesn’t bear thinking about.” Yet she is: horribly graphic images—the moment Bea fell, realized she was tumbling into nothingness. A sob rises in her chest.
“It’s not just the fall.” Maya’s eyes are tearing up too. “I don’t get it, the fact that she was here, and we didn’t know. It’s not like her to pull something like this.”
It’s true. Bea doesn’t do spontaneous, never has. Ever since she was a kid, she’s been ordered, almost to the point of obsession: pens lined up, schoolbag packed and by the door the night before.
Pulling a fresh tissue from her bag, Hana takes a breath. “But you heard what Jo said, about calling her out. Perhaps she did feel guilty, wanted to surprise us.”
“Maybe.” Maya looks unconvinced. “I . . .” She stops midsentence, as if she’s struggling to formulate what she wants to say.
“What is it?”
“It’s just,” she says finally, wiping her eyes, “I think someone lied, about what happened last night.”
“Lied about what?” Hana says weakly.
“About not leaving the villa.” The words come out quickly now, as if Maya’s glad to be rid of them. “Someone did leave. I heard them.”
“But everyone said—” Hana replays the moment in her mind, the negative responses to the detective’s question.
“I know. But someone left, I’m sure of it.”
“When was this?”
“About an hour or so after we got back . . . a quarter past twelve. I was still on my phone when I heard the door go. I looked through the window, saw someone going along the path beside the villa. I couldn’t make out their face, it was too dark.” Maya’s voice pitches higher. “But it was definitely our door that went. Someone left the villa, Han, I’m sure of it.”
23
Bea’s silver suitcase is sleek and expensive-looking, compact enough to be carried on board, pushed into an overhead locker.
Neatly placed under the long wooden table in the meeting room, it’s the only clutter in the space. The meeting room, despite the official connotations, has the same laid-back vibe as the rest of the lodge. It’s hard to place Bea here after what Elin’s seen of her; imagine her wheeling this case in, anticipating surprising her family, full of life.
Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Elin hauls the case onto the table. As she sifts through the contents, she finds typical holiday attire. Several cover-ups—silky, flimsy bits of material low in the neckline, slit up the sides. Elin recognizes the chevron pattern immediately from magazines—Missoni. Expensive. The rest of the clothing clearly is too—a bohemian mix of fine knit tops, textured cotton skirts and shorts.