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This is it.” Farrah stops outside one of the smaller villas, just off the main path. On tiptoe, she peers through a window. “Once the cleaning staff finish, you can get in.”

It’s the first time Elin’s seen one of the villas up close. A small-scale version of the main lodge, it’s so deeply nestled in the lush greenery that the building itself seems a part of it; a blocky structure bursting from the earth, all angles and glass, painted the same blossom pink as the flowers spilling from the pots outside. She feels a pang of pride for Will.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Farrah says, watching her.

“Gorgeous. Will’s so clever.” Elin smiles. “Wish I could be more eloquent.” But she’s getting better, she thinks. While she’s still no expert, because of Will she sees a poetry and a personality in buildings that she never did before. “I need Will here, to describe it. He makes this kind of thing sound better than I do. It’s his enthusiasm, I think, his positivity.”

Farrah opens her mouth as if to say something, but then hesitates, as if she’s internally debating if she wants to confide. Finally, after a beat, her expression softens. “But that positivity is one of the Riley family curses. We like things bright. No sheen. There’s a weird kind of pressure in that. We’re allowed our allotted sad time, and then that’s it, move on. Seeing that things don’t always have to be that way, it’s good for him.”

“But I think he struggles with it sometimes.”

“That’s because Will’s never had to be the strong one. He’s always leaned on me.” Farrah laughs. “But it works in your favor. He leans on me, so he doesn’t have to lean on you.”

Elin smiles. “He’s lucky, having you.” She realizes that perhaps she’s misjudged Farrah, misinterpreted her protectiveness as something personal. “I haven’t had any family to confide in, not since Mum died.” A pause. “Will’s probably told you about Isaac.”

Farrah nods. “He has... How’s it going?”

“I thought we’d turned a corner, but it hasn’t really worked out. He was meant to come to the UK, but keeps putting me off.” Elin falters. “Sorry, I’m not good at this, opening up.”

“It’s fine. I don’t like being vulnerable either.” Farrah looks down at the ground. “I always think it’s like you’re giving up part of yourself. Especially when there’s a difference between what people see and what you’re feeling inside.”

Elin’s eyes smart. Apart from Will, no one’s really seen her like that or cared, not since her mother died. A flush creeps up Farrah’s cheeks and Elin realizes that Farrah has revealed something about herself too. “And is everything okay with you? Will said you’d been a bit stressed recently.”

Farrah hesitates. “I don’t want to put anything else on your plate, not now...”

“Is it work?”

“No, my ex. Not exactly an amicable breakup, and he’s still hassling me. Actually came out here a few weeks ago with a friend. Pretended he wanted nothing to do with me, but I could tell he was watching. Since then, I’ve had a few odd messages.” She gestures to her phone. “Not his number, but I’m sure it’s him.”

Tipping the screen, Farrah shows Elin: I’m watching. Waiting. Farrah swipes the screen. Another: I won’t give up.

“Nasty stuff. If it carries on, we can look into it for you. Slap him with a warning.”

Relief floods Farrah’s face. “I wish I’d said something before, but I was hoping it would go away.” She takes a breath. “And there’s something else, I—” She stops as Elin’s phone beeps. A brief shake of her head. “Don’t worry, you need to get on. I’ll tell you later.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, really. It’ll wait.” Farrah presses the key fob into Elin’s hand. “Let me know when Will’s arrived.”

Once she’s gone, Elin looks at her phone.

A message from Steed. Know you didn’t ask, but did some digging on Zimmerman. Started working here a few months ago. Squeaky clean.

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.