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Moments from the last few days flash through her mind. Her alone at the back of the lodge, the person searching, the cliff fall...

Had she been in real danger?

Steed takes the phone back. “I reckon someone’s trying to warn you off, that’s all.”

“But if that’s the case, why aren’t they targeting you too?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says eventually.

Elin’s mind starts spiraling: What if it’s not the killer who’s sending them? Could it be the same troll who’d sent similar things during the Hayler case? Hayler himself? It’s not implausible. He’s never been found. Zimmerman? She thought she recognized him...

“It might not mean anything,” Steed says quickly. “Could be just a prank, someone realizing you were police, wants to scare you. As horrible as it is, I think as a woman you’re more susceptible to this kind of stuff. We both know the criticism female officers put up with. Most of these people are cowards, hiding behind their keyboards. Doesn’t mean they’ll act on it.”

Elin nods. He’s right, the majority don’t, but that isn’t reassuring. She’s worked with victims of stalkers and she knows that the real fear lies in the threat of violence, the knowing that someone’s watching. Waiting. The unpredictability of what they’ll do next.

“Look, it’s just something we need to be aware of.” Steed’s voice is steadier now, as if he’s gaining confidence in the idea as he says it aloud. “Someone, whether it’s the killer or not, is trying to get inside your head, mess up the investigation. You can’t let it. Not now you’ve come this far.” He inclines his head toward the people behind them. “Everyone here, they’re relying on you. They need to know what’s going on.”

“You’re right.” Her words belie the turmoil inside her; she’s starting to get a bad feeling about this.

Taking a moment to collect herself, Elin makes her way to the front of the room.

“Excuse me, I’d like to say a few words.”

Zero response. No one even looks her way.

Loudly clapping her hands together, Elin raises her voice. “Excuse me, if you can please give me your attention, I want to say a few words—”

“About time,” someone calls, but Elin plows on. “I understand that the situation is worrying, and you probably have more questions than I have answers. Right now, all I can tell you is that we’re dealing with an incident here on the island, and for your safety it’s in your best interests to stay together.” More murmurs of discontent, but she continues. “Rest assured that the police on the mainland know of our situation. As soon as they can get someone out to us, they will.”

Another voice: “So what exactly is going on?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, not until we have more information.” Sweat pricks the back of her neck.

More muttering, shaking of heads. A pulsing tension ripples through the room, a raw hostility in the faces assembled before her.

Elin knows why: people are usually relieved when someone’s there to take control of a situation, but not when there are no answers. Without it, the imagination takes over.

Continuing to talk, she mentally works through the loose script she’d prepared in her head—instructions on what to do if they need to use the restroom, or what to do in an emergency. She’s only halfway through when a man steps forward, features already tight with displeasure. He jams his hands in his pockets, thumbs pointing at her, a hostile gesture.

“Can’t you tell us any more?” The raw streak of sunburn on his left cheek makes it look like he’s been slapped. “A vague mention of an incident isn’t really going to cut it. My wife’s terrified, and all we’re getting is hearsay. Someone heard a member of staff saying that a body’s been found on the beach.”

Meeting his gaze, Elin feels exposed. “I’m afraid I don’t have any further information at this stage. All we’re doing now is trying to keep everyone safe.”

The man keeps his eyes locked on her as if in challenge, the moment broken only by the loud whine of the wind outside. It sounds frenzied, out of control, as if it’s pulling at the very foundations of the building.

The room falls into an uneasy silence.

But Elin’s aware that they’ve only been given a respite because it’s late—nearly midnight; people are tired, unable to think straight. They’re on borrowed time. When everyone wakes up tomorrow, they’ll be fired up. She needs to be ready.

Stepping back, she says to Steed: “I’m going to look through my notes again, the statements Johnson sent through.”

“I’ll do the same.”

Taking a seat on the far side of the room, Elin starts reading, looking for something, anything. She has plausible motive now, but if Jackson’s dead, who can be responsible?

It has to be someone linked to all three time frames—the school, the Creacher killings, the present day. The possibilities seem scarce and at the same time overwhelming, and as she scrolls through the files, the conversation with Will replays in her head.

Sometimes not doing something is the bravest thing of all. Acknowledging your limits.

Tears prick her eyes. What if he’s right? What if this is beyond her? Past doubts consume her and her thoughts start to spiral. What if something happens to Farrah overnight? On her watch? What about the tweet?

The thoughts still churning over in her mind, the stress of the day hits her like a battering ram.

She leans back against the chair, closing her eyes for a moment’s respite.