You try to rest… but you’ve still got unfinished business.

You doze through most of the day, with the result that by the time night falls, you’re wide awake.

Emma stayed with you all day, but on the insistence of a large, matronly nurse, she’s sleeping in the room next door. There are two armed guards outside, and Alan’s still roaming the halls, but you don’t think you’re in much danger. Justin’s too smart to risk anything now.

Not when it looks like he’ll get away with nothing but a slap.

You twist in bed, anger coiling in your stomach. The **** they’ve pumped you with are seriously not helping you sleep.

The IV drip is just saline – salt water in a bag – and something in your chest rebels against having another needle stuck inside you. On a sudden impulse, you slide it out, wincing as the metal leaves your skin.

The heart-rate monitor is plugged in beside you, but it’s dark and silent; satisfied you’re in no immediate danger, the doctors have switched it off to let you sleep. Not that that seems likely.

It’s just…

You twist irritably under the sheets, which are stiflingly hot. The room’s air-conditioned, but you think you might have a fever; which wouldn’t exactly be a surprise. Stumbling through the jungle with a dozen open wounds, it’d be more of a shock if you hadn’t caught something.

Then you notice the skylight.

It’s covered with glass and bolted securely from the inside. But the ceilings here are low, and you could probably reach it if you stood on a chair.

You listen to your own breathing for a moment, caught by indecision.

Justin must still be on the island. The ferry only comes on weekends. Unless he’s got his own yacht.

…Which of course he has, you realise with a surge of anger. And if the cops want to speak to him tomorrow, chances are he’ll have waited till nightfall to sail away.