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The morning air is still, full of the musky scent of flowers. The group slowly weaves its way up the winding stone path toward the main lodge, crossing fine streaks of light scattered among the long branches of the pines.

The drunken bonhomie of last night has dissolved—the awkwardness emphasized by low blood sugar and the lack of social lubricant that is Jo. It’s only when she isn’t there that Hana realizes how much Jo fills in the gaps between them all.

Seth’s holding forth as they round the corner, bouncing from one subject to another: Digital epicenters. A trip to San Francisco. Bioweapons . He’s speaking quickly, as if it will somehow kick the group chemistry to life, but it doesn’t. They fall into silence again, distilled into individual sounds: Birdsong. Voices escaping from one of the villas. The slap of Maya’s sandals against the ground.

Maya loops her arm through Hana’s, her skin surprisingly cold. “Seth doesn’t like it without Jo, does he?” she whispers. “You never really see that side of him.”

Hana nods. It intrigues her. She’d always assumed Seth was the one who bolstered Jo, but perhaps it was the other way around. Without her, he seems adrift.

Maya turns to look at Seth. “Still no word from Jo?”

“Let me...” Seth pats his shorts—left pocket, then right. “Shit, I’ve left my phone in the villa.”

Everyone stops in their tracks.

“We’ll wait.” Caleb shrugs as Seth starts walking back. “No hurry.”

Maya says, “I need to send a few emails anyway.” She starts tapping out a message on her phone, but as Hana watches, she senses a frustration in her movements—a slight shake of her head as she types.

“What’s up?” Hana stops beside her.

She shrugs. “Just the usual. Job stuff. If I don’t find something soon, I’m going to have to move out into an even smaller flat.”

“What happened to the job that Jo recommended you for?”

Maya’s face tightens. “Only temporary. Got the boot a few months ago. Haven’t found anything since.”

Hana couldn’t understand Maya’s roadblock with work. So strong in every other part of her life—scaling rock faces, punchy in her politics—she lacked drive with her career. Her fine arts degree had never really amounted to anything, and although she’d taken jobs, her heart didn’t seem to be in them: work experience in a gallery, library assistant, virtual PA.

Maya looks at her. “Han, you go, get us a table. I’ll wait here with Caleb so Seth doesn’t think we’ve abandoned him.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” she replies, getting the message. “Meet you up there.”

Hana slowly follows the path upward. Although it’s hard work in the heat, her chest loosens; a weight removed. Horrible to say about her own family, but on her own she finds she can breathe more easily.

At the top, she sees a group of guests milling around the yoga pavilion. More people are joining, and she cranes her head to see what they’re looking at.

Her eyes take in everything at once: the twisted snarl of blue-and-white tape strung up around the pavilion, the solemn member of the LUMEN staff in front of it, but what strikes her the most is the flash of color.

The only color against the muted neutral of the pavilion floor.

There’s a strange moment when her eyes focus in and then out on the crinkled plastic bag, the bright, bold fabric folded up inside it. She feels herself growing hotter, not only from the sun on her face, but from the realization dawning on her.

It’s the wrap Jo wore last night, the one their mother brought them back from holiday in Liguria. Splashy, bold colors like paint splotches.

But why would it be here?

She notices a man beside it, dressed in one of those crinkly white suits.

It’s then that it all comes together in her head. The man and the blue-and-white tape and the fabric all squished in the bag. She feels seasick, light-headed, as if the island had suddenly become a boat and the ground beneath her were moving.

Hana takes a breath, and then another, feels herself sway, and she actually puts her arms out to steady herself. She registers that the man’s mouth is now opening, saying something, but she can’t hear it. Only the gulls as they crisscross overhead, and the roaring of the blood in her ears.

Hana jerks forward, toward the pavilion.

Two steps in and she slips. Her shoes, her strappy sandals that she chose because they had a flash of something cool and young about them, have completely flat soles. The fine layer of sand on the path acts like oil. A strange, comic split, her left leg splayed.

Straightening, she starts moving again, pushing through the crowd of people gathered outside. The member of staff guarding the pavilion puts out an arm to stop her, but Hana throws the full weight of her body forward and his arm gives way. She bursts into the pavilion, half running, half walking toward the white-suited man by the balustrade on the far side. He turns, eyes widening in surprise.

He puts up his hand, mouth moving in slow motion. “No,” he says, and it reverberates in her head, big and boomy and exaggerated, like she’s hearing it underwater.

It’s only when her eyes find the little Sharpied arrows on the glass balustrade that it all comes together.

Stepping toward the balustrade, she leans, waist pressed against the glass, looking down to the rocks below. Her eyes skim past a man and a white-suited woman to the body slumped on the ground.

A black dress, fair hair splayed across the rock.

Hana’s breath catches in her throat.

In her head, she’s kicking and screaming like a child, lung-bursting screams that make her throat raw.

When her breath finally comes it’s as a gasp.

She’s dead. Her sister is dead.