A slew of articles about his purchase of the island appears in the results. The contents reaffirm what Tom told her: the retreat was leased by a hotel group known for their upmarket developments in beachfront locations.
Elin clicks in and out of the next article—a generic press release—and is about to give up when one of the results catches her eye.
“What have you got?” Steed asks.
She tilts the screen so he can read it too.
NEW DELANEY DEVELOPMENT DOGGED WITH COMPLAINTS
Torhun Express
Controversy continues to swirl around the proposed development on Cary Island.
Ronan Delaney, new owner of the infamous Reaper’s Rock, is planning to build a hotel on the site of the former school on the south side of the island. The application has received over two hundred comments in objection.
Speaking to reporters, local resident Mr. Jackson commented: “The proposed contemporary building doesn’t fit with the raw beauty of this island.”
Another protester, Christopher Walden, said: “I believe our previous plans for the island as a nature reserve, an SSSI （Site of Special Scientific Interest）， are more in keeping with the legacy of this beautiful place. If this goes ahead, it will be a travesty.”
The application is scheduled to be decided by Torhun Council later this month.
The comments below are scathing.
Travesty, but not a surprise given the new owner of the island. I’ve heard rumors about dodgy companies he’s been involved in. A shark.
Worth checking out his other developments.
A shark. Elin rolls the phrase over in her mind. Interesting.
Steed points at the screen. “Same thing mentioned, about the nature reserve.”
She nods. “But after reading this, I’m guessing the environmentalists didn’t stand a chance. Doesn’t seem like Ronan Delaney takes any prisoners.”
“Perhaps not with his own son either,” Steed says quietly. “Maybe the drug trafficking was some weird kind of rebellion. Pissing on his father’s turf.”
41
The group’s villa is tucked into a natural plateau at the end of the path. Needles from one of the pines above are scattered across the ground, crisscrossed over one another like pickup sticks.
As she raps on the door, Elin looks at pairs of shoes lined up outside—flip-flops, Birkenstocks, some sneakers. A pair of Reefs are noticeably larger than the rest, the rubber insoles still holding the imprint of feet.
Seth’s. It touches her. All the things we leave behind.
The door clicks.
Elin looks up to find Jo framed in the doorway, phone in hand. Her blue short-sleeved dress pops against her tan but doesn’t lift the tiredness from her face; her skin is sallow, the whites of her eyes laced with red. The ends of her hair, still wet, are dribbling onto the fabric, have left half-moons of damp on her shoulders.
“Ah, statements.” Jo moves back to let Elin and Steed inside. The corridor behind is strewn with bags and clothing, as if they’ve already halfheartedly begun packing.
Elin steps forward. “Actually, no. We’re not here to take statements.” She clears her throat: this never gets any easier. “I’m afraid we have some bad news. About Seth.”
“He hasn’t done something stupid, has he?” Jo looks between them, shaking her head. “I knew it was wearing thin, playing the supportive boyfriend. Since we found out about Bea, he’s pretty much checked out. Wakeboarding yesterday, and today I woke up to a message saying he’d gone kayaking.” She pulls a face. “He’s already in the bar, isn’t he? Causing a scene—”
“Actually . . .” Steed starts, but doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
Jo’s talking again, rambling about Seth’s questionable alcohol habits. Elin quickly realizes that it’s a defense: she’s sensed something’s up, is delaying the inevitable. Her voice is too bright, the smile on her face too strained.
Elin gently touches her arm. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident. I’m so sorry to have to tell you that Seth has died.” As she speaks, the air-conditioning rattles, and for a moment she wonders if Jo has caught the end of her sentence—her expression is frozen between the forced smile of a moment ago and a curious kind of blankness.
But then she covers her mouth with her palm. “No . . . he can’t . . . no . . .” A dry, hoarse sob emerges muffled from beneath it.
“I’m sorry,” Elin repeats. “I know it’s a shock.”
It takes a little while for Jo to compose herself. “What . . . happened?” she says finally, chest still heaving.