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I stumbled into Joe coming the other way, about halfway around. He was leaning heavily on the rail, and his face was white as a sheet. I gripped his hand tightly as Short Clarry advanced on us.

Then, I caught a glimpse of movement down by the cottage. A streak of black. Hiccup. She was bounding down the hill joyfully, her tail wagging.

And there was someone striding up towards her. Someone in a bright yellow puffer jacket.

Joe squinted in the same direction, and his eyes lit up,

“You gonna shoot us, Short Clarry?” he asked, cautious hope rising in his tone “And are you gonna shoot Mavis Coldwell after that?”

Short Clarry turned to look.

Mavis wasn’t alone as she crested the hill. Young Harry Barnes was with her, his wild Santa hair going mad in the wind. There were other people with them too, and Red Joe named them all.

“What about John Corporal? And Verity Corporal? Are you going to shoot them? And Nipper Will Harper, and Little Harry Finch?”

They saw the flags. They actually saw the flags, and came. I wanted to sag with relief, but we weren’t done here yet. Short Clarry could still kill us both.

Short Clarry turned back to face me and Joe, his expression blank.

“They’re all gonna know, Short Clarry,” Joe said. “They’re all gonna see. And the police are almost here. It’s done. Stop. Just stop, and put the gun down.”

There was almost something proud in it, when Short Clarry smiled. “We’re mutineers, Red Joe,” he said, and puffed out his chest. “We’ve always been mutineers.”

And then, before either of us could even take a step towards him, Short Clarry stepped towards the rail and pitched himself over the side.

The wind carried away the sounds of the impact.

* * *

A n hour later, Joe and I sat at his kitchen table.

“Well, what a mess,” Mavis Coldwell said, pressing a fresh cup of tea into my shaking hands and a biscuit into Joe’s. “I always said nothing good would come of it, didn’t I, Red Joe?”

“You did,” Joe murmured.

“I’m sorry,” said the detective, shoving Hiccup’s head off her lap as Hiccup gazed at her adoringly. “Who are you again?”

“Mavis,” Mavis said. “Mavis Coldwell.”

“Ah. And you’re related to the victim, John Coldwell. Yes?”

“Yes. John Coldwell was my third cousin. And Short Clarry was my first cousin, if you need to write that down too.”

“That would be Mayor Clarence Finch?”

“Oh yes.” Mavis bustled to the kettle and back again, sliding a cup of tea under Joe’s nose. She hummed, considering. “ Former mayor.”

The detective blinked.

“Well, I didn’t vote for him anyway,” Mavis said, as though that settled it. “He always had something about him, didn’t I say so, Red Joe? Something just off about him?”

“You did,” Joe said.

“Everyone on the island is related to everyone,” I told the detective. “And they all have the same names.”

The detective rubbed her forehead. “Right.”

A uniformed police officer walked past the kitchen window.

Short Clarry had left a mess, in more ways than one, and it would take a long time to clean things up.

There were currently police down in the village dealing with John Coldwell’s body and the crime scenes at the museum and the icehouse and interviewing the islanders.

They were all over Joe’s yard as well, and in and out of the lighthouse.

It was a shambles.

The detective clearly thought so too. She flicked back a few pages in her notebook and frowned.

I curled my shaking fingers into a loose fist. Joe laid his hand on top of mine.

Mavis raised her eyebrows and hummed.

Joe exhaled slowly. My face fell when he took his hand away. He stood, placing his hand on my shoulder. Squeezed it, and then leaned down and kissed the top of my head.

Mavis’s eyebrows vanished into her hair.

Joe crossed to the pantry and pulled the box of Cornflakes out. Then he returned to my seat and slid the box toward me.

He must have got a concussion or something when he hit the rail. “Um, thanks, but I’m not really hungry.”

Joe rolled his eyes and pulled the box back. He opened it, pulled the bag of cereal out, and shoved the box at me again.

I peered inside. My heart flip-flopped, and I sucked in a sharp breath as I saw a very familiar book in the box. I pulled out Henry Jessup’s diary. “Oh my god!”

I caressed the cracked spine for a moment before running my fingers over the cover. Then I opened the book, revealing brittle, browning pages full of cramped and faded writing illegible to a quick glance with modern eyes.

“The diary,” I whispered. I blinked, and tears of relief and joy stung my eyes. I closed the little book and held it to my chest. “Joe, you found the diary! Be honest, did you think about throwing it in the ocean, just once?”

“No,” he said. “Not even for a second.”

I surged into him and kissed him, one hand still cradling the diary to my chest and the other tangling in Joe’s hair. “You saved the diary. And, yes, my life, but also the diary . And all my dreams of getting to put on a museum exhibit just once, even if nobody comes.”

Joe’s mouth quirked. “Well, so long as you dedicate your thesis to me, I guess.”

“I could do that,” I said, leaning back and beaming at him. “I mean, it will look really weird to publish a thesis about a murdering rapist criminal mutineer, and then dedicate it to him as well, but I’ll make sure people know I mean you, and not him.”

The detective cleared her throat and held out an open plastic evidence bag.

My face fell. “Really?”

The detective nodded.

I sighed and slipped the diary carefully into the evidence bag. “Bye, Henry. See you soon.” I looked at the detective. “You’ll take care of it, right? Like, no reading it with sticky fingers or anything?”

“I’ll take care of it,” she assured me, sealing the evidence bag and folding it over before sliding the diary into the pocket of her coat.

Joe took my hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be fine, Eddie.”

I leaned against him. Drew a deep breath then exhaled. “Yeah,” I said at last, choosing to believe it wholeheartedly. “It’ll be fine.”