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The police boat slows, engine dampening to a throaty purr as they approach the jetty.

The CSIs, Leon and Rachel, and the two paramedics gaze up at the retreat with admiration, but as the boat steadies to a stop, all Elin feels is a bottomless dread.

She’s seen the island in photographs, but this is different. There’s a wildness about it, something raw and uncompromising. Although she tries to focus on what Will’s created, it’s nature that dominates, drawing her gaze: the tangle of woodland, looming cliff faces, birds perched high in the shadows, and the rock.

Reaper’s Rock.

Memories flicker.

A ticker-tape stream of images from the press: police boats, people searching through the forest, the bloated face of Larson Creacher’s mug shot all over the news, straggly rat’s-tail hair curling around his shoulders.

“Ready?” One of the medics turns, breaking Elin’s reverie as she begins to clamber from the boat, bag in hand.

Elin nods, distracted. Someone is walking toward them, waving. Farrah.

“You know her?” Leon looks at her curiously.

“Will’s sister. She’s a manager at the retreat.”

“It’s not going to be awkward?” Rachel brushes her dark, wispy fringe out of her eyes.

“No.” Elin’s not offended by her bluntness. It’s one of the things that makes Rachel so good at her job. That, and an inexhaustible ability to go the extra mile.

Farrah stops to direct the medics to the body. When she reaches the dock she greets Elin: “I didn’t realize it would be you.”

Elin nods, skimming over a reply by making introductions. “This is DC Steed, and these are the crime scene investigators.”

Farrah gestures at the medics, scrambling over the rocks to the left. “I told them where she is, but I don’t know if there’s much chance...” She trails off. “Our first aider said as soon as he got there he knew.”

“The paramedics still need to check.”

“Of course.” A fleeting frown crosses Farrah’s brow as if she’s questioning Elin. She’s done this before. It makes her feel that Farrah doesn’t take her seriously. “I’ll walk you over.”

“Do you know who she is?” Elin says as the group falls into step beside Farrah.

“No, she’s not a member of staff, and as yet, none of the guests have been reported missing, but it’s still early. People might not be awake yet.”

“Where exactly did she fall from?”

“Yoga pavilion.” Farrah points up at the wooden structure perched atop a sheer cliff face that looms dizzyingly high above them. Elin can make out a glass balustrade circling the front of the pavilion: the only barrier to the rocks below.

“She fell over the balustrade?”

“Yes.”

“How high is it?” Steed asks.

“Maybe waist height on me.” Farrah shakes her head. “I’m still not quite sure how it could have happened.”

But Elin knows it’s possible to fall over a balustrade of almost any height. She’s seen a couple of catastrophic balcony falls—one residential, one in a hotel. On both occasions, alcohol was involved, but she can’t make that assumption here. Not yet.

Farrah seems ill at ease as she glances toward the rocks. “Michael, the cleaner who found her, said he saw a wrap on the other side of the barrier. Maybe she leaned over to get it and lost her balance.”

“Perhaps, but until we know more, we have to look at every possible explanation.” The golden rule in an unexplained death: treat as suspicious until proven otherwise.

“Where’s Michael now?”

“At the yoga pavilion. The officer on the phone said he should stay there, stop anyone getting too close. We’ve put a rough cordon up with some rope, put a member of staff outside to guard it as he instructed.”

“Good.” Elin thinks on her feet: she’s going to have to divide and conquer, split Rachel and Leon up so they can examine both scenes simultaneously. “Leon, can you head up to the pavilion with Farrah, start there? Steed and I will go with Rachel.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”