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A passport.” Elin holds up her flashlight, the dull light illuminating the words. Christopher Jackson . “A different name and a different face...” She scrutinizes the photograph. A bushy beard, darker than his hair, lengthens his face, lending the skin around it a sallow color. The image bears a striking resemblance to the photograph she’d fished from Farrah’s bin.

Her gaze slips back to the name, pulse quickening: Christopher. “Wasn’t the name Christopher on the plans for the SSSI you found in the shack?”

Steed nods.

“So if Caleb is actually Christopher, chances are those were Caleb and Porter Jackson’s plans for the island.” Her mind flickers to the article she’d read about the development, the thwarted plans for ensuring SSSI status. A Chris was mentioned there, too, she’s certain.

Little cogs in her head start cranking into gear. “Didn’t you say Caleb was pretty disparaging about the retreat?”

“He was,” Steed replies. “It struck me as a bit over the top, given what had happened.”

Hana glances at her. “He’s said similar to me...”

“You think Ronan Delaney knew about these plans when he proposed the development?” Steed says slowly.

“I don’t know. But if this was Caleb and Porter Jackson’s project, and it never got off the ground, it certainly gives credence to the idea that Jackson had a vested interest in opposing Delaney’s plans for the island.”

“Yes, I—” Steed stops. “Hold on, there’s something else.” He’s still fumbling in the toiletry bag.

Elin looks over his shoulder, past a faded packet of painkillers to the rounded edge of a phone.

As he withdraws it, they exchange a loaded glance. The missing memory card.

Steed presses down on the side button. No password protection: the screen goes straight to home. An ordered stack of icons.

“That’s Bea’s home screen,” Hana says quickly, her face draining of color.

Steed clicks on the envelope icon at the bottom. “Must be her work account,” he mutters.

Elin looks at the massive thread of unread emails, more loading on top.

Steed searches using Caleb’s name, then methodically works his way around the icons—WhatsApp, iPhone messages. “Looks like he’s done a pretty thorough job. Can’t see anything on here between him and Bea.”

Frowning, Hana points to an icon in a folder on the top of Bea’s screen. “Check this—her Yahoo account. We set those accounts up together, as kids. I didn’t know she still had it.”

Steed opens the app. New messages flood the in-box.

Elin waits, expectant.

When the most recent emails download, it’s not Caleb’s name that appears at the very top of the email chain; it’s Bea’s.