Free All My Secrets by Sophie McKenzie Page A

face. My heart thuds in my chest. The colour of the hat looks similar to the flash of red I saw earlier. And the swish of the black coat I caught sight of could easily have been made by the
coat in the picture. Was
this
who I saw running through the trees? I snatch up the article and read:
    An unknown woman is reported to have been pushed – almost certainly to her death – in the early hours of this morning on Lightsea Island, our correspondent
     writes.
    The woman’s outer clothes (pictured here on a model) were found on Easter Rock, a lethal promontory that occupies the eastern end of the island. Alan Lomax, head of the Lightsea
     Institute mental-health facility, claims to have no knowledge of the woman or her presence on the island. The alleged incident was reported by a visitor to the Institute. He remains the only
     witness, but was only able to give the police a general description of the alleged attacker and the woman who fell. The attacker is believed to be tall with dark hair while the woman was
     described as fair-haired and of slightly lower than average height and build.
    My skin erupts in goosebumps. The woman sounds like Irina. I shake myself. Lots of women could be described in the same way.
    This is not the first time tragedy has struck on this particular part of Lightsea Island. Easter Rock was a commonly used suicide spot for inmates of the Asylum that
     used to stand on the site of the present Institute.
    Police are appealing for information from anyone who thinks they may have seen the woman or her attacker in the local area . . .
    Heart still racing, I scan to the date of the incident. All the air seems to be sucked out of the room as my brain tries to process what it is seeing.
    It is the date of Irina’s death.

Eleven
    ‘Evie?
Evie?
’
    I’m dimly aware that someone is saying my name, but all I can think is that the woman in the article might be Irina – except of course she can’t be. Uncle Gavin would
definitely have said if Irina had died on the island. He told me – as did Andrew – that she was run over by a lorry one evening in Nottingham. All the information I found online said so
too.
    ‘
Evie?
’ Kit shakes my arm. ‘Are you OK? You look really pale.’
    I force myself to look at him as he sits down beside me, his eyes full of concern.
    ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘It’s just . . . this article is a bit weird.’
    ‘Yeah, I thought so too,’ Anna says. She twists her hair around her finger. ‘I mean, how come nobody apart from that one guy saw the woman?’
    ‘What woman?’ Kit asks.
    I pass him the article. He reads it, then gives it back. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says. ‘Why is some random woman going missing fifteen years ago upsetting you?’
    I pocket the article, avoiding looking directly at his handsome face. I feel too vulnerable to tell him the woman sounds like Irina, but perhaps I can explain just a little bit.
    ‘I think I might have seen her ghost,’ I stammer. ‘Outside, in the trees . . . running down to the rocks.’
    Kit wrinkles his nose. ‘Ghosts aren’t real, Evie,’ he says. ‘They’re just a stupid, made-up thing to frighten people with.’
    ‘You don’t know that,’ Anna says. She sits bolt upright, her cheeks flushing bright pink. ‘I . . . I believe in ghosts. When I was younger, I was certain my mum was
watching over me.’
    Our eyes meet. Anna looks self-conscious but defiant, as if she’s used to people being sceptical.
    ‘I can understand that,’ I say.
    Anna nods.
    ‘What exactly did you see, Evie?’ Kit asks.
    I tell them both about the figure I saw outside, though I still can’t bring myself to explain that I think it might have been Irina.
    Kit shakes his head, but Anna leans forward, her eyes round with alarm. ‘It sounds just like the woman in the article,’ she says. ‘Wow, Evie, you’re being haunted;
that’s so cool.’
    Am I? A chill creeps down my spine.
    I really want to explain to her about the