Thanks, she taps back. You ok to take a look at the Leger family too?
Already on it.
Good work.
Elin smiles. There’s an eagerness to please in Steed that she recognizes in herself. An insecurity—it’s as if your own word isn’t enough, you have to hear it from someone else’s mouth.
Still waiting for the cleaners to finish, she decides to do some digging of her own. Finding the photo of the web addresses in Bea’s planner, she types the first into her phone: www.fcf1.com. The site quickly loads: Financial Crime Fighters. Detailed exposés of financial scams and crimes. The article at the top references a scheme that had robbed investors of their savings.
Elin closes the tab, disappointed. Most likely something Bea’s law firm was involved in. The next address brings up a local history site about Cary Island. She skims over the text: the grim history of the island, the curse, the fire at the school, the Creacher murders. The wording has a macabre tone, the author obviously relishing the grim detail.
“We’ve finished now, if you want to go in,” one of the cleaning staff says, smiling as she opens the door.
Elin thanks her but makes no move to stand up, focusing on one paragraph of the text.
Rumor has it there were mass cremations on the island, plague victims burned to stop the spread of the disease. It’s said that even to this day, ash from these cremations makes up more than 40 percent of the island’s soil.
As the cleaner bumps her cart out the door of the villa, Elin closes the tab. Maybe she’s right to think that the darkness in this place doesn’t solely come from the rock: perhaps it’s in the very soil they’re walking on.
29
This is delicious.” Will extends an arm around Farrah’s shoulders, squeezes.
The table Farrah reserved is at the edge of the terrace, overlooking the sea. Food has been laid out feast-style—platters of wafer-thin beetroot drizzled with herb sauce, strips of sticky beef, sprouting broccoli. Another plate is piled high with battered vegetables, pickled chilies, flatbreads dimpled with char.
“Perks.” Farrah smiles openly, easily, but Elin notices a worry line creasing her brow. She recalls their earlier chat about Farrah’s ex.
“So, did I choose okay?” Forking some salad onto his plate, Will gestures at Elin’s dress.
“Ooh,” Farrah says and smiles. “You let Will pack for you. Risky move.”
As Will pulls a mock-wounded face, they both burst into laughter. Elin’s smile, when it comes, is hesitant—she’s pulled up short, as she always is when the siblings are together. The physical similarities are an arresting sight.
Will takes Elin’s hand in his. “Anyway, it’s good being here, with both of you, even if it is under these circumstances.” He hesitates. “What about Steed? Didn’t fancy joining us?”
“I asked, but he’s already eaten. Said he’s following up on a few things.” Elin actually thinks work was an excuse for some time alone. Despite Steed’s bonhomie, she senses from his remarks about lengthy solo runs that he’s a bit of an introvert at heart.
Farrah nods. “Have you got much left to do tomorrow? Might be nice to get some fun in as well as work.”
“Not much, only statements.” Reluctant to go into any more detail, Elin ends the conversation by forking a vegetable into her mouth. The batter collapses, impossibly thin. There’s ricotta inside, flecked with some kind of herb. It’s delicious, but she feels her stomach clench as she swallows. The heat, she thinks. Even now, it’s unbearable.
Farrah’s phone beeps and as she taps out a message in reply, Will puts his hand over Elin’s. “I feel better, now I’m here. That Twitter thing, it got to me. Hated the thought of you being out here with that hanging over you . . .”
Elin doesn’t get a chance to reply. Farrah’s phone rings loudly, drowning out the end of his sentence. Shaking her head, Farrah glances at the screen.
“Take it,” Will says and Elin nods in agreement. Farrah meets her gaze, smiling.
“So it looks like things are going well between you two, then?” Will says lightly as Farrah pushes back her chair, leaves the table.
“Yeah, we had a good chat earlier. What you said, about her ex, you were right, I—” She stops. Farrah’s already walking back toward them.
“Got rid of them.” Farrah slips her phone in her pocket. “A supplier. Never allowed to switch off.”
“Maybe another glass will help.” As Elin reaches for the bottle of wine, starts to pour, she notices Hana Leger, Bea’s sister, weaving her way through the restaurant. Her hair is limp, the white dress grubby, a shade darker, as if it’s absorbed the detritus of the day.