Chapter 2

2

Hana Leger and her sister, Jo, are waiting on the jetty for the boat to take them to the island, suitcases and bags piled around their ankles. Hana rubs the back of her neck. It feels as if the sun were homing in on the soft skin there, direct as a laser beam.

The water around them is thick with people: paddlers, swimmers, dinghies bobbing, lone figures tracing the horizon on paddleboards. Children splash in the shallows, kicking up spray. Chubby toddler arms punch at froth.

Hana's stomach tightens, but she forces her gaze back to the squatting toddler.

Don't look away. She can't be blind forever.

"You okay?" Jo looks at her through her aviators, blows out over her upper lip. The motion lifts up the thin strands of white-blond hair that have fallen loose from her ponytail.

"Just hot. I didn't expect it to be so bad down here. Sea breeze and all." Hana's dark hair, cut in a bedraggled bob, is damp, sticking to the nape of her neck. She ruffles it.

Jo rummages in her backpack. It's one of those technical, lightweight packs, covered in zippers and pockets. Pulling out a bottle of water, Jo swigs and then offers it to her. Hana drinks: it's warm, plasticky tasting.

Her sister cuts a striking figure. Tall, tanned, she manages to elevate the white cotton beach dress and leopard-print Birkenstocks, slightly fuzzy from wear, into something hip and effortless. Every part of Jo is lightly muscled from a regimen of yoga and running and skiing.

Hana follows her to the end of the jetty, squinting. The island itself is a blur—the bright circle of sun behind casting it into shadow. Only one thing is clear: the infamous rock protruding from the top left of the island—the side profile that gestures to a hooded figure, a protuberance jutting out like a scythe.

Hana's stomach tightens, the sight a hit to her solar plexus. "I didn't expect it to actually look like—"

"A reaper?" Jo turns, ponytail swishing against her face.

"Yes." Despite her sunglasses, a murky shadow of the rock appears every time she blinks. It's a stark contrast to the brochure—all white sandy beaches, lush foliage.

"But you're looking forward to it? The break, I mean." Jo raises her voice above the whine of a Jet Ski.

"Of course." Hana squeezes out a smile, though she's secretly been dreading this trip.

She'd actually said no when Jo first called. The idea of a holiday with Bea, their older sister, and Maya, their cousin, boyfriends included, seemed odd. They hadn't seen each other in months, after steadily drifting apart over the past few years. While Jo said it was all about getting them together again , Hana struggled to understand it. Why now? After all this time?

She offered up what she thought was a solid excuse: without Liam, it didn't feel right. But Jo was persistent: phone calls, texts, she'd even turned up at her flat—a rare occurrence—with a hard copy of the retreat's brochure.

Jo wore her down, making Hana feel simultaneously old and prissy for declining. This was Jo's modus operandi: she's a leader, not in a bossy way, but by the sheer force of her personality. Somehow, you got caught in her slipstream, unaware you were even being led.

It never bothered Hana as much as it irked Bea. Bookish, and fiercely introverted, Bea found Jo's energy and extroversion overwhelming. Perhaps it washed over Hana more because she was in between: academic, but not Bea's level. Sporty, but not an athlete like Jo.

"I'm going to post a view of the island from here..." Jo takes a photograph.

Hana turns away. It pisses her off—this constant documenting of every move they make—but she can't complain. This trip is a result of Jo's frenetic social media activity: as a travel influencer she gets paid in kind with free holidays. She has nearly four hundred thousand followers who like that she's natural, regularly commenting on her "relatability"—her slightly too-wide mouth, the Streisandesque kink to her nose.

"That can't be ours." Jo slips her phone back into her pocket. "Not already." A boat is making its way across the water, leaving a foamy spume of white in its wake. Hana glances at the blocky lettering on the side. lumen . Jo checks her Fitbit. "Actually, it's already five to. Where's everyone else?" She turns to the beach. "Saying that, I think that's Seth over there..."

Hana follows her gaze. "Is it?"

"Is it?" Jo mimics. "Conjure up some vague enthusiasm, Han." She shakes her head. "I know you're not a fan. He's too ‘risky'?"—she makes quote marks with her fingers—"for you, isn't he?" Jo's face tightens. "I wish I'd never told you now. It wasn't exactly serious."

A bead of sweat trickles between Hana's shoulder blades. Jo's the master of this: the sudden turn. "A criminal record is serious. We were only looking out for you."

"He got in with the wrong crowd. End of it." Jo's eyes flash. "Not everyone's perfect, you know, not everyone can do happy-clappy songs all day, teach kids how to add."

Hana looks at her. There it is. The sting in the tail. This is why this holiday is a bad idea. Because Jo, as usual, is able to chop her down with a few choice words. The worst thing is, it's not just a gibe, it is what the rest of the family think of her—a reductive cliché, knee-deep in Play-Doh, singsong calling the roll.

They'd never imagine the reality: the kids' sticky, pinchy fingers in hers, the nitty-gritty machinations of their brains that slip straight from their mouths, no filter, and how, after a term with them, Hana knew exactly what kind of humans they'd become.

Jo puts up her hand, waving, all smiles again as Seth approaches. Switch flicked.

"Yay," she shouts. "You're here!"

Hana does a double take. A well-built man in shorts and a T-shirt is walking toward them. The height, gait, the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes—it's gut-wrenchingly familiar. With the sun in her eyes, his face is hard to make out, the similarities uncanny. Despite what her logical mind is telling her, her heart leaps before reality hits.

Of course it's not him. Liam is gone . Dead, dead, dead.

Swallowing hard, she collects herself. It's then she notices another, slighter figure behind Seth. It's Caleb, Bea's boyfriend. But no Bea. She asks Jo, "Where's Bea?"

"She canceled." Jo's voice pitches higher. "I told you, didn't I?"

"No," Hana says tightly. "When did this happen?"

"Last week. Something came up with work, I think. A trip to the U.S." Bea canceled. It shouldn't be a surprise. She's always been a workaholic, but the past few years have taken it to another level.

"So she sent Caleb instead. A placeholder."

Jo shrugs. "It'll be good to get to know him."

"You didn't want to rearrange it for when Bea could come?"

"No. Too late, and besides, we need this, Han." There's a look of quiet determination on her face. "To reconnect." Before Hana can reply, Jo starts walking up the jetty, long, loping strides. "I'll go and meet them." But as she walks past Hana, Jo knocks over her own backpack, balanced on her case. Unzipped, the contents immediately scatter: hairbrush, diary, a purse. A half-empty bottle of water careers across the jetty. "Shit..." Jo grabs it, clumsily shoving everything back in before resuming her jog to Seth.

Hana's about to follow when she realizes that Jo's missed something: a crumpled piece of paper. Bending down, she picks it up. Her eyes skitter across the page .

It says Hana , then three small sentences all the same, but the first two crossed out, and started again.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.