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sensation of seeing the past and the present overlap like double exposure on film. His father’s battered typewriter—which had belonged to his father before him—sat on a small table facing the window overlooking the beach.
    Outside the window he could hear rain ticking against a metal watering can.
    Swift walked out to the back porch and gazed down at the empty beach below. Cyan-blue waves ruffled against the sand and rocks. There was no sign of anyone.
    A gust of wet wind blew against his face. Mother Nature giving him the raspberry. He shivered. Shining drops beaded along the edge of the porch roof and splashed down on the steps in moody silence. Swift turned and went back inside to have another look around, not wanting to accept the obvious: that Tad had never arrived. That Tad was missing—possibly on the run.
    Possibly something worse.
    There was a ring of undisturbed mold around the waterline of the toilet bowl. The fridge was empty of everything but a box of baking soda and an unopened jar of blueberry preserves.
    The bedroom, too, had not been used since the last time Swift had stayed on the island. The wooden blinds were closed. The pale green chenille bedspread was slightly crooked. The white dresser top was cleared of anything but the milk glass shaded lamp and a framed photo of Norris Swift’s parents, dead long before Swift was born.
    The bed was one of those white antique storage beds with drawers built into the base and a bookshelf for a headboard. The shelves were crowded with Swift’s childhood collection of Choose Your Own Adventure books. One of the books was lying on the bed. Who Killed Harlowe Thrombey?
    Swift picked it up, opening to his forgotten bookmark, his smile dimming at the sight of a faded antique postcard featuring 19th century couples, parasols and Sunday best, strolling along the water’s edge. Beneath the flouncing hemlines were printed the words: “Oh! Come Unto Those Yellow Sands.” Shakespeare.
    Max had sent him that card last summer when Swift had been staying on the island for a couple of weeks. He turned the card over. Max had written in his neat, controlled handwriting, Wish you were here.
    That had to be the single most romantic gesture Max had made in the course of their relationship. It had been enough to get Swift to end his island retreat a week and a half early and head back to the mainland.
    Max had been satisfyingly appreciative, but it had not been the turning point that Swift had privately hoped for. Max had been glad to see him—as he had been glad to see Max—and life had gone on as usual.
    Standing in that silent, shadowy room, it suddenly hit Swift that it was probably too late now for things to move in the direction he’d have liked. Time and tide. Love had its own circadian rhythms, and it was beginning to look like he and Max had missed their chance, that they’d slipped into a comfortable somnolence. Perhaps they would continue on indefinitely, but it was all too likely one of these days they were simply going to drift gently, quietly apart.
    That still might be preferable to the shrieking wake-up call Swift would have to deliver when he got back to town and told Max that he’d invited a murder suspect to stay at his bungalow—and that the murder suspect was now twenty-four hours further ahead in his escape from justice.

Chapter Four
     
    You have wasted too much time. You must get back on track. Should you phone Inspector Pennyfeather and find out whether he has made progress on the case or should you proceed on your own?
    If you phone Inspector Pennyfeather, turn to page 47.
    If not, turn to page 8.
    Or maybe you should just take a minute or two to think it out—seeing how much you’ve screwed things up already, you fucking idiot.
    Swift gripped the ferry railing and stared bleakly down at the churning water. The rain had thinned out to a mist. It felt good against his flushed face. He’d been too restless to stay in his car, and he’d spent