by Nalini Singh
He’d just gone and gotten what he wanted from another woman.
Four years.
That’s what the wailing woman had said.
She and Edward had been together for four years.
“So if you’d never met Jemima, why did you have that impression of her?” Will prompted again. “Think carefully.”
Frowning, Anahera tried to track back through the years. “Before today, the only things I knew about Jemima came from others.”
“Josie?”
“She said once that Jemima didn’t seem interested in attending town events. Nothing malicious, just a passing observation during a phone call.” Anahera had used to curl up in a window seat during Josie’s calls, her view of the street below, but her heart in a misty, green land far from London.
Josie’s voice had been a song of home. And a memory of pain.
“She and Tom had just bought their own place and the renovations pretty much consumed her life—we’d talk about paint, about wallpaper, about rugs, even about the best tapware for the kitchen.” Anahera’s lips curved. “A family of her own and Tom, that’s all Josie’s ever wanted.”
“Is that what shaped your perception of Jemima?”
“No. Like I said, Josie was cheerfully obsessed with Tom and their new home—they’d only been married a couple of months then.” Less than a year later, Josie’s obsession had switched to her first pregnancy.
It had been raining the day she woke Anahera up with the news, her joy incandescent. Anahera had been alone, Edward on one of his business trips—even with all his success as a playwright, he’d continued to put in time at the family firm. The devoted son. Upright and steadfast. That day, Anahera had lain in her bed watching the rain create trails down the windows, and she’d listened to her friend bubble on about the new life growing in her womb.
Afterward, she’d gone to the bathroom and thrown up until her throat was raw.
“Josie and Tom got married less than a year after Vincent and Jemima.” One a large society wedding, the other a cozy local affair, yet Vincent and Josie had shared many guests. Josie had been ecstatic when Vincent chartered a plane to fly his Golden Cove friends up to Auckland for his fancy do.
“I think if Josie hadn’t been so involved in planning her own wedding when Jemima first came to Golden Cove, she’d probably have made an effort to draw her out, take the initiative in starting a friendship.” That was how Anahera and Josie had first become friends. Josie had literally run over to Anahera while Anahera was in the supermarket with her mother, and taken her hand.
They’d been three years old at the time.
“When Josie mentioned Jemima being standoffish,” Anahera continued, “I figured maybe Jemima didn’t feel comfortable coming into town because everyone was friends with Vincent and they all knew one another. I felt that way in London for a while.”
Marrying Edward had meant integrating into a tight-knit public-school community. Most had been nice people—though their definition of comfort was Anahera’s definition of total luxury—but she’d never forgotten they were Edward’s friends first, hers a distant second.
Will continued to watch her. “When did that sympathy change? When did you start to think of her as a, what, ‘lady of the manor’ type?”
Taking another sip of her coffee, Anahera let the deep, rich flavor seep into her tongue as she wound back time. “I think,” she said slowly, “it was the pictures Vincent posted. There never seemed to be any . . . normal ones. You know, just hanging out in jeans and tees, throwing a ball around with the kids, or having a sunburned nose at the beach. I’ve only ever seen photos of her in formal gowns or evening dresses.”
“Always?” Will pushed. “Not even in hiking gear? She’s a keen tramper.”
Chewing on the inside of her lip, Anahera tried to think of a single nonglamorous image of Jemima, and couldn’t.
Surely that couldn’t be right.
She put down her coffee and went into the bedroom, to return with her old laptop. Opening it up, she used her phone to create a hot spot, then logged into her social media account and clicked her way to Vincent’s.
30
There it was, the evidence showcased in glittering dresses and sparkling diamonds. All of them with Jemima perfectly posed and made up. The ideal woman to hang on a man’s arm and act as his hostess, or to stand supportively behind her politician husband, but one with no real personal drive outside of her defined role in life.
An intelligent doll.
“I can’t believe I never consciously noticed this before.” In her defense, she’d had no real reason to ever think about Jemima. If the other woman did cross her mind, it had been as an adjunct of Vincent.
Having come to stand at her side, one hand on the back of her chair, Will reached out to tap an image. “Vincent puts up normal photos of himself. Could be he’s just one of those men who likes to show off a beautiful wife.”
The heat of Will’s body brushed against her. For a furious instant, she wanted to tell him to get back, wanted to push him away. She had no need for men in her life. Her aloneness had been brutally earned, was craved.
Gritting her teeth, she wrenched the betraying impulse under control and forced her attention to the photos: Vincent playing with his kids, coming home from a bike ride through the countryside, and that infamous one of him caked in mud after a charity soccer match that had taken place on a rain-soaked field.
He looked real, human.
“You didn’t connect with Jemima online?” Will asked.
“I really only joined to keep up with close friends.” Pausing, she thought about it. “Though, I am friends with Keira, but she sent me the request and I just accepted it.” The girl who’d once told her about her dead brother had been Nikau’s wife at the time. “I don’t know if Jemima even has a profile. Vincent hasn’t tagged her in any of these photos.”
She did a search to make sure. “No profile. At least nothing that comes up.”
Will released the back of her chair, rose to his full height. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange? She’s a woman with a certain public image to maintain. I’d think she’d want control over that.”
“Let’s try something else.” Opening up a tab on her browser, Anahera put Jemima Baker’s name into the search engine.
The results came up quickly.
At the very top was a site that showcased the charities Jemima supported. Each charity had a separate page with details about its work and instructions on how to donate. The images of Jemima were airbrushed and touched up, her makeup flawless. No photos of her laughing or interacting with the staff at the charities, not even a stereotypical shot of her doling out soup to the homeless.
“Odd she’s not milking her charity work more for political gain,” Anahera murmured, “but she might just be a private person who prefers the world have a particular impression of her.” Anahera herself was the queen of masks and illusions.
“Look at the name of the company that designed the website.” Will pointed out the tiny script at the bottom of the first page that linked back to a company under Vincent’s umbrella. “It’s almost as if that’s all he sees her as—the perfect, beautiful wife. Not a fully rounded woman.”
Anahera turned in her seat so that she was facing Will. “What brought on this line of questioning?”
Walking over to retake his own seat, Will picked up his coffee to take a drink before answering. “The news will be all over town tomorrow anyway,” he began. “That accident I mentioned? The reason I was drenched?”
Anahera nodded.
“Vincent drove his car into a ditch.”
“My God. Is he—”
“He’s fine. A cut on the head, but it doesn’t look serious. He told me he skidded because of the rain, but I don’t think that’s true. I think he was distracted and not paying attention.”
Anahera sucked in a breath, a sudden knot in her gut. “At the fire station, he was adamant that the search continue. He seems very passionate about finding Miriama alive.”
“‘Passionate’ is the appropriate word.” Will shoved back his hair with one hand. “He’s admitted to having a crush on Miriama. You know him better than I do—do you think he’d cheat on his wife?”
She did know Vincent. He was one of her oldest friends. And this cop was asking her to betray him.
Getting up, she went to check the fire. It crackled and sparked in direct contrast to the heavy drumming of rain on the cabin’s tin roof, the howling wind held barely at bay. “As a child,” she found herself saying after getting up from her crouch, “I always loved storms. The sounds, the smell of ozone in the air, how my mother would sleep over with me so I wouldn’t be scared.”
Anahera stared down at the orange-red glow of the flames. “I wasn’t scared, but I never told her because I liked it so much when she stayed with me.” Her mother’s body had been a warm bulk, one that meant love and affection and safety.
“I used to like storms, too—before I became a cop,” Will said from his seat at the table. “You’d be surprised how stupid people get during this kind of weather. Worst is when cabin fever sets in.”
“Do people hurt each other more?” Her father had punched her mother so often that Anahera had seen no difference during storms.
“Yes. And it’s mostly people who know each other and say they love one another.”
The words fell in between them like unexploded grenades. She saw realization dawn in his eyes a second later. He immediately shook his head. “That wasn’t a dig. Every cop I know hates domestic violence callouts. They have a tendency to go bad very quickly.”
Anahera turned her attention back to the fire, to the flames and the heat and the warmth that couldn’t reach the ice in her heart. “No need to tiptoe around the truth,” she said. “My father did beat my mother. Badly. Everyone in Golden Cove knows that.”
It was impossible to hide bruises when they went three deep.
“Nikau and Josie tell me he’s turned over a new leaf, goes to AA meetings every month. But that doesn’t change the past, does it? It doesn’t disappear my mother’s black eyes and broken bones and splintered spirit. It doesn’t bring her back.”
Anahera didn’t believe in forgiveness, not for that crime. Whether or not Jason Rawiri had physically pushed her off that ladder, sociable Haeata had only lived in this cabin far from her friends because she owned nothing else. Jason had taken it all, every cent she’d ever earned. Only Anahera’s grandparents’ cabin remained. A safe place for Haeata to move with her daughter, but not one she could’ve sold for any real gain. As it was, even with Anahera contributing through part-time jobs, they’d barely managed the outgoings.
If Haeata had had the money to rent in town, a neighbor would’ve noticed she wasn’t around outside pottering away. Someone would’ve checked on her.
And Anahera’s mother wouldn’t have bled to death cold and alone.
“I can’t answer your question about Vincent’s loyalty to his wife,” she said into the heavy silence. “The boy I knew was the straightest arrow in our group. But those pictures he puts up of Jemima, like she’s a shiny trophy and not a real person . . . that’s not the Vincent I know.”
Her mind kept gnawing on the whole thing. What if it wasn’t just bragging about a trophy or showing off? What if he wanted to shape his wife’s image to keep others at a distance from her?
Why would he do that? Consciously isolate Jemima?
The cold in Anahera’s bones turned as brittle as her mother’s too-often-fractured left arm. “You don’t think he might be hurting her?”
“I’ve never seen any indications of that.” Will rose to join her by the fire. “But people are good at hiding the bruises. A woman in Jemima’s position, with such a strong public profile, would probably work extra hard to make sure no one found out.”
“My mother wasn’t wealthy or well-known like Jemima, but she was still ashamed to admit that her husband beat her.” Even though everyone already knew. “She couldn’t bear it that others would think her weak.” Never understanding the shame wasn’t hers but his. “The psychological damage can be as debilitating as the physical.”
Will nodded. “And Jemima probably hasn’t got anyone to turn to in this country.”
It was only then Anahera remembered that Vincent had met his wife in South Africa. “She doesn’t have an accent.”
“I always thought that was a political move meant to help Vincent.” Will braced his forearm on the mantel. “Losing the accent and trying to sound like a local.”
The more Anahera thought about what they were considering, the heavier the stone in her gut. “Vincent’s been my friend for a long time and I’ve never once seen him be violent—to anyone. He’s the one who always broke up the schoolyard fights.” Jemima could well be a willing coconspirator in her glamorous public image. “Maybe the glamour is to help build up her profile so she’ll have media clout when Vincent launches his campaign.” It was a more realistic possibility than educated and connected Jemima having nowhere to turn. “The world likes following the lives of beautiful people. And glamorous political wives get a lot of airtime.”
“No one really knows much about the situation inside the Baker house,” was the disturbing answer. “Vincent and Jemima invite people up for dinner now and then. I got an invite the month I moved in—but all I saw was the flawless veneer. The smiling hostess, the good-humored host, the perfect, well-behaved children who didn’t throw a tantrum or fidget when paraded out to meet a stranger.”
Putting both hands against the rough-hewn wood of the mantel, Anahera stared at the flames as the wind threatened to tear off the roof. “I have an open invitation from Jemima to visit. I’m going to take her up on it.” She needed answers, needed to find out if there was something terrible going on in Vincent’s house.
Because if there was and Anahera looked away, she’d never forgive herself.
“If nothing else, I want to let her know she has a friend in Golden Cove. She must know my family history by now.” Anahera had never before consciously used that history, but if it would help a woman trapped in a violent home, then she didn’t think her mother would mind. Haeata had been one of the most generous people she’d ever known.
“That’s a good idea,” Will said. “She’d never trust me the way she might trust you.” Moving away from the fire, he began to pace across her small cabin, the floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet.
Anahera turned and found herself watching those feet, big and slightly pale as they walked back and forth, back and forth. “Miriama is very young for Vincent,” she said, going back to his question about cheating. “But . . . Jemima is the perfect wife. The kind of wife Vincent’s parents always wanted for him. We didn’t email much, but when he invited me to their wedding, he mentioned that she was the daughter of family friends.”
Will paused in midstep. “A modern-day arranged marriage?”
“That was my feeling.” Anahera couldn’t shake the sense of disloyalty, but she also couldn’t let this go now that Will had planted the seed in her head. It didn’t matter who it was, if someone was making another person’s life hell while putting on an act of loving and cherishing that person, then Anahera would do everything in her power to change that.
Thunder boomed at that moment, lightning flashing beyond the windows.
Walking to the front door, she opened it. The cold swept in, but it wasn’t a blast, the wind and the rain both slanting in from the opposite direction for now. It allowed her to stand in the doorway and watch the storm rage above the ocean, a cauldron of bruise-colored clouds and black fire.
She was aware of Will coming up behind her, a large solid presence, and suddenly her body, which had been in deep fr
eeze for seven months, decided to wake up. It liked the smell of this cop, liked the look of him, liked those moody eyes and the way he was hunting so hard for a girl many in his position would’ve forgotten.
“Do you have any other clues? Anything to go on?” she asked, shoving back the part of her that wanted to turn to him and say, “Let’s go to bed.” The mindless physical act would offer a little relief to her body, but her anger and her grief would all still be there in the morning.
“I located the watch,” he said. “It’s too unique to have come from an ordinary shop.”
“International, you think?”
“We start here first. I’m planning to go to Christchurch, show it around the high-end and custom jewelers, see if anyone recognizes it.”
“How about sending them a photograph? Wouldn’t that speed things up?”
“I want to see their faces—it’s an expensive enough piece that the jeweler might feel the need to be protective of the client’s privacy.”
Staring out at the huge waves slamming into shore, Anahera said, “You really shouldn’t be driving in this.”
A single wire-taut moment, their breaths in time, before Will stepped back. “It’s a very short drive.” He went to the fire and picked up his still-wet shirt, pulling it on with a grimace.
Once back out in the entranceway, he sat down on the shoebox and began to tug on his boots. He shoved his wet socks into a pocket of his jacket when he pulled the jacket on. Zipping it up, he flipped the hood over his head, then paused on the edge of the porch. “Stay safe, Anahera. And if you hear anything, you’ll let me know?”
Anahera met those gray eyes that hid so much. “As long as you return the favor. I’m not going to betray my friends if I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
