Lori wheeled her suitcase along the humid airport walkway. Loose strands of hair were pasted to the back of her neck. Seeing her gate number ahead, she paused, then glanced back over her shoulder.

Still no sign of her sister.

She slipped her mobile from her pocket, the screen eyeing her blankly. No messages. No missed calls. Her heart kicked hard between her ribs: it was only minutes until they were due to board.

A snatch of their argument arrowed into her thoughts. I don’t recognise you any more . . .

Lori worked her teeth over the insides of her cheek, finding the smooth flesh, pressing down until she tasted blood.

She tried to picture herself leaving without Erin – taking this inter-island flight to the remote southeastern reaches of the Fijian archipelago. She reminded herself that she’d already done the hardest leg of the journey yesterday – the long-haul flight from London to Fiji. No diazepam needed. But she’d had Erin beside her then, who’d come armed with snacks, music, books, and was so busy colluding about what drinks they’d order once airborne, that Lori had barely noticed the take-off. On arrival last night, they’d checked into a beach- side hotel, planning to grab dinner and some sleep before this morning’s short flight to their resort.