“Hide what?” Elin glances out to sea at a group of paddleboarders who are fanned out in a triangle formation. The person on the lone board in front moves effortlessly into a downward dog. Amazing how Bea’s death has barely made a dent on the world. It isn’t their person; the juggernaut of life rolls on.
“How you feel. People bang on about getting used to it, but I think they just get better at covering it up.”
Elin’s momentarily thrown by his openness—they’ve never spoken like this before. Chitchat, surface stuff, but nothing beyond that. “You think most people hide it?”
“Course they do, we all have a game face, a defense mechanism to pull us through the shitty bits.” He gestures down at himself. “This is mine. I was a skinny kid, used to run a lot with my mum. Psychologist would have a field day, say it’s armor, defense mechanism . . .”
Elin struggles to picture a skinny him beneath the bulk. “Against what?”
“Verbal bullying, physical. All the rugby boys didn’t exactly approve of the running and I was pretty nerdy. Into history, archaeology. People took the piss.”
Elin gives him a sideways glance. “Brave of you to say. Not many people admit stuff like that, especially in this job.” They scramble down the rocks onto the sand. “I’ve never felt I could share, not properly.”
“This to do with the career break?” Steed asks.
“Partly. Keep thinking I’ll choke on the job. Something happened before, and I froze. Part of me’s convinced I’ll do it again.”
He grins. “Ah, so that’s why I’m out here: backup.”
“How’d you guess?” Smiling, Elin feels something shift between them, a tentative bond becoming firmer.
They reach the bottom of the steps. “Right, I need to call Will. You go up.” She wants Will to hear from her what’s happened before he finds out another way. “Then I need Farrah to tell me where my villa is.”
“Villa?” Steed pulls a face. “Not slumming it in staff accommodation with me, then?”
“Pulling rank.” Elin laughs as they begin walking up the steps. “It was actually all they had left. A cancellation.” She hesitates. “But one thing I didn’t think of—clothes. I’ve always got stuff in my bag, but . . .”
Steed smiles. “Don’t worry. I brought some. The Scout in me. Always be prepared.” Climbing the last few steps, he asks: “Anything you want me to do now? I was going to get something to eat.”
“Maybe speak to some of the staff. Be discreet, but ask if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.”
Nodding, Steed lowers his voice. “Don’t look, but you’ve got a fan. On the right.”
She gives it a few seconds and then glances up. Michael Zimmerman is standing near the restaurant, broom in hand, openly staring at Elin. Realizing that they’ve noticed him, he rapidly starts sweeping again.
Elin scrutinizes his bent frame, and once again she feels a sense of familiarity. It’s confusing: she’s now certain that it isn’t only that he reminds her of someone; she recognizes him, has seen him somewhere before. “That’s the guy who found the body.”
“Ah, I never asked. Helpful?”
“Not sure. He was . . . rattled. Kept banging on about the island. The curse. Reckons he saw someone at night, walking around the rock.”
“Guests?”
“Assume so.” Elin clears her throat, eyes still fixed on Zimmerman. “Right, I’d better call Will. Can’t put it off anymore.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Elin strides toward the side of the main lodge, hoping for some privacy.
Although she’s sure that Michael Zimmerman can’t see her from this angle, she’s certain she can feel his eyes on her, watching her every move.
26
You’re at the retreat?” On the final word the FaceTime screen judders and pixelates. Will’s next sentence emerges unintelligible, staccato.
Elin moves her phone around to get a better signal, but the only thing pulling clear is her own sweaty reflection lurking at the top right of the screen. It’s a few seconds before Will resolves, and with it, his office, the framed architectural drawings on the wall behind.
“Yes. A woman died. Fell from the yoga pavilion onto the rocks.”
Will takes a sharp intake of breath. “An accident, presumably.” The tension in his voice clips his words. Concern, obviously, but something he’d probably never admit to considering. The award.