‘How do you know that?’ he asks, gruffly, frowning at me.
‘I saw the flowers on the grave earlier.’
I noticed them when we returned to the chapel after we stole the gun. A bouquet of thistles and autumn leaves filling the vase that had been toppled over just the day before. That’s when I figured out who the fourth person on the island was. Liam was too focused on his foot to notice them, thank god. I saw the flowers and thought about the No Trespassers sign and suddenly it all made sense. The gravestone said ‘beloved brother’. It wasn’t Andrew McKay on the island. It was his son. His other son. It was the only thing that made sense.
‘I’m sorry for what happened to them.’ My nerves are electrified. I feel as if I’m walking on a tightrope over shark-infested waters.
He nods to himself. ‘Aye. Well, I’m sorry for what happened to him,’ he says, nodding at Liam but keeping his eyes fixed on me. I know that he’s searching my face for some reaction to his death. I should look anguished, upset, grieving, in shock. And I’m not displaying any of those emotions. I’m giving myself away with my total lack of feeling.
‘You’ve got blood on your sleeve,’ the man comments, nodding at my arm.
I look down and notice the dark stain on the white cuff of my sweater. There’s a circle of dark bruises too, a bracelet of them running around my wrist, Liam’s parting gift to me. I tug the sleeve down, hoping he hasn’t noticed, but when I look up at him, it’s clear he has.
‘My father was a sick bastard too,’ he says.
The breath catches in my chest. I lock eyes with him. A long moment passes.
‘I saw the way he was with you in the pub,’ he finally says. ‘From the moment you walked in I could see you were afraid, though you were hiding it well.’
I am stunned at his words. I thought I was a consummate actress. That I was hiding my fear from the world.
‘I spent my life around a bully,’ he goes on. ‘Watched my mother put up with it for years. Always wished she’d leave him, but she never did.’
My lungs refuse to fill. I feel as if I’m being held underwater, but then suddenly I’m bursting to the surface and drawing in air. I take in a ragged breath.
‘You had bruises,’ he says, gesturing to my neck.
I remember I was wearing a scarf in the pub. I’d started taking it off but noticed he was looking at me funny and kept it on, reminded that the scarf was hiding the bruises on my neck that Liam had put there a few nights before. My hand flies to my neck and an echo of a shudder runs through me as I remember Liam kissing the five bruises in the shape of his fingers. They’re still there.
‘I wish I’d had the courage to stand up to my father before it was too late and he did what he did,’ the man says to me now.
I don’t react. I’m so used to keeping a blank face – or trying to, at least. But then I remind myself that I don’t have to fake anything any more. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, letting emotion transform my face. It feels as if a dam breaks. All the tension I’ve been holding on to starts to crumble and I let out a choked sound.
‘You OK?’ he asks, taking a step closer.
‘I will be now,’ I answer, giving a shaky smile.
‘You going to leave him here?’ he asks, nodding disdainfully at Liam.
I think about how Liam told me that dead criminals in ancient times would be left out in the elements for the animals to eat them. It seems fitting.
‘I’ll tell the police when I get back to the mainland,’ I say. ‘The boatman’s coming in a few hours.’
The man nods. He doesn’t offer to undo the trap around Liam’s leg or move him somewhere sheltered.
‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘How will you get off the island?’
He takes out a small notebook and pencil and scribbles something down. When he’s done, he rips it off and hands it to me. ‘When you get back to the mainland, call this number. It’s my friend Joe. Tell him where I am – my name’s Jamie – and ask him to come and get me.’
I take the piece of paper and put it in my pocket. I still can’t believe that this stranger is going to cover for me when he knows what I’ve done.
‘Thanks,’ he says to me.
I nod.
‘You could stay here if you wanted to,’ I blurt.
He shakes his head, an unhappy look on his face. ‘It’s not my land any more. I don’t own it. My father was in debt. When he died everything had to be sold.’ He exhales loudly. ‘But I still come out here, to tend the graves. It’ll always feel like home.’
‘I know the new owner,’ I admit. ‘She’ll be OK with you staying.’
He narrows his eyes at me, and then a small smile creeps onto his lips.
‘She might even need a caretaker for the cottage,’ I add.
He considers it for a while, the smile still playing on his lips. ‘Tell the new owner I might be interested in that.’
‘I will,’ I say with a smile.
We say our goodbyes, exchanging emails, and I return to the chapel and rescue the bird, Hathor, from its box. She’s unhappy with me for having left her alone so long. I carry her outside and sit down, exhausted, among the gravestones. The sky is flushed pink and the sun is chasing the shadows away. I carefully unfold the bandages around the bird’s wing.
‘How’s that?’ I ask, setting her down on the ground.
She caws loudly at me but then hops away, flapping out her wing, ruffling the feathers. I decide it’s probably too early for her to fly and I move to pick her up again and rebandage her, but before I can, she flaps her wings and takes off into the air, rising higher and higher into the morning sky.
I stand up and watch her fly towards the sun.
Acknowledgements
This is my twentieth-something book and I would like to thank Amanda, my agent, who has shepherded every single one of them. I am indebted to you for your support.
I am grateful too to Mady, my film agent, who has also supported me for almost a decade now. We finally did it! My first adaptation is finally greenlit. Hopefully it won’t be the last.
When I think about my journey as an author the thing that strikes me most is that I had no creative writing background or knowledge before I started, not unless you count being an avid reader and watcher of movies and TV. And yet, what I did have was the confidence to try, cultivated in large part by my parents, and an attitude of fuck it, cultivated in large part by my husband and the advice of my brother-in-law: ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’. That advice has served me well (it also serves me as a storyteller when I’m trying to figure out what plot direction to go in).
I am lucky and blessed to have the support of my husband, John, and our daughter, Alula, as well as the encouragement and cheerleading of some amazing friends, most especially: Vic (always my first reader), Alby, Nichola, Rachel, Lauren and Clarissa.
Thanks also to Tessa, and my sister-in-law Sarah, for their medical knowledge and help with the details.
My least favourite parts of writing a book are the copy-edit and the proofing, so enormous thanks are due to Felicity Radford and Tony Russell for taking the hard work out of it and making it easy.
Finally, last but not least, I would like to thank the amazing team at Avon for their hard work and dedication. Molly, my editor, has an eagle eye and I so appreciated her skill. Also thanks to Helen Huthwaite, Ellie Pilcher, El Slater, Becci Mansell, Catriona Beamish, Sammy Luton, Hannah Avery and Elisha Lundin.
Keep Reading …
Two friends go on holiday.
Only one comes back.
A twisty holiday read for fans of The Holiday and Date Night.
UK readers click here to find out more.
US and CA readers click here to find out more.
About the Author
Sarah Alderson is a London-born, LA-based writer whose previous books include Friends Like These (Mulholland), In Her Eyes (Mulholland) and The Weekend Away (HarperCollins). Sarah is also a screenwriter; her adaptation of T
he Weekend Away will soon be streaming on Netflix.
You can follow @sarahalderson on Twitter and @sarahaldersonauthor on Instagram.
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