“That little drawer to the left. It’s under a pile of panties.”

When Will just stared at him, Steve licked his lips and Will could almost hear him thinking of an excuse for pawing through Miriama’s underwear drawer.

“She asked me to get her a pair once, when she forgot to take it into the shower,” was what he came up with.

Deciding the obvious lie didn’t deserve a response, Will retrieved the watch after tugging on a pair of disposable gloves from his jacket pocket. Instinct and experience told him Steve was ­right—­this was no ­well-­made fake. He put the glittering object that was more jewelry than timepiece in an evidence bag he’d pulled from another pocket, then wrote out a receipt and placed it on the dresser, beneath a glass trinket box. He’d make sure Matilda knew he’d picked up the watch, just in case Steve decided to be a vindictive shit and not mention it.

As he was in the room already, he took a quick look around. He didn’t want to invade Miriama’s privacy, but at this stage, it was looking more and more likely that she wasn’t okay; Will needed to know anything and everything that might help him find her.

The room held a bed, a built-­in closet, a small desk, and an old computer. Prints of Miriama’s photographs were pinned to the walls, but he saw no camera equipment. The latter didn’t surprise him; Miriama had once mentioned that Josie let her use part of the back room of the café as an office. Not only could she work in peace there after the café closed, she probably didn’t have to worry about Steve selling off equipment she’d worked hard to buy.

He turned to spear the man to the spot with his eyes again. “Fingerprints don’t rub off as easily as people think,” he said. “Am I going to find yours all over this room?”

Flushing hot red under the pasty white of his skin, Steve folded his arms and bristled. “What’re you trying to say?” When Will just held the eye contact, the other man dropped his arms and looked left, then right, then down at his feet, then back up again. “I just wanted to look at her things, okay.” His hands fisted by his sides. “I’m at home a lot. I get bored.”

“Does she have another hiding place?” Instinct told him the watch had been shoved in the underwear drawer quickly, maybe because Miriama had been looking at it, only to be interrupted. It couldn’t be the permanent spot. Not with Steve in the house.

The other man didn’t try any bullshit this time. “Behind the bed,” he said, pointing his finger at the single bed with its metal frame. It was neatly made up with a soft pink flannel sheet and matching pillowcase; a dark blue blanket lay folded at the bottom. “There’s a board on the floor that comes up. She hides her diary and stuff in there. The watch’s usually in there, too.”

“How many times have you read that diary?”

Steve’s lip curled. “I don’t need to read her diary. Probably the same crap women always ­write—­feelings and shit.” A snort accompanied by a scratch of his protruding belly. “Only thing I’m interested in is between ­her—­” Cutting himself off when he finally looked at Will’s face, Steve began to back away. “Look,” he said, “I don’t read too good. I just wanted to look at her stuff. I didn’t touch that diary.”

Waiting until the other man had backed himself all the way into the living room, Will shut the bedroom door before retrieving the single item beneath the floorboard: an old tin box heavy enough to hold a diary. As a hiding space, it was a good one. If Steve hadn’t been unemployed and at home so ­much—­and likely a former ­thief—­he probably wouldn’t have put together the sounds of the bed being moved with a hiding spot.

Will’s eyes moved to the computer; he wondered if Miriama had hidden her secrets a second way.

Deciding to talk to Matilda then and there, he made a call to the fire station.

“Take whatever you need,” she told him when he explained where he was and what he was doing. “But you take good care of it.”

“I will,” Will promised, and booted up the computer. “Do you know where Miriama keeps her old diaries?”

“She cuts out all the pages, then goes deep into the bush to bury those pages. Says it’s about saying ­good-­bye to the past and living for the future.”

Will thought of the pages rotting away in the silent dark, an act of hope for the future turned into a somber omen. “I’ve got another ­question—­what was the name of the man who molested Miriama as a teenager?” He was far more dangerous to the young woman than Steve.

“Fidel Cox.” Matilda’s voice quivered with rage. “That pokokōhua did a runner, cops never found him. You think he came back to hurt my Miri?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to check it out.”

“Just find my girl, Will. Just find Miriama.”

Will didn’t make any promises; he’d learned his lesson about making promises and he’d learned hard. Never again would he tell a victim that everything would be all right. Because, too many times, the monsters won.

25

Will had one more thing to do before he left Matilda’s home. “I want you to remember something, Steve,” he said to the man in the sagging armchair. “Matilda might let you push her around, but I won’t look the other way. I see her with a single bruise, I’m coming after you.”

Steve postured, all raised shoulders and lifted chin. “A man’s got a right to do what he wants with his own woman in his own home.”

“You just remember what I said anytime you get the urge to hurt Matilda.” Will knew his eyes had gone flat in that way one of his partners had once said made him look like a psychopath. Will wasn’t always so certain he wasn’t a ­psychopath—­psychopaths didn’t have feelings and his had burned down to ashes thirteen months ago.

Steve glared at him, but Will was satisfied Matilda would be safe from abuse, at least until Steve forgot his fear. Will wouldn’t have dealt with the situation the same way had it been a different ­man—­some mean bastards would’ve hurt Matilda out of pure spite at being ordered not to, but Steve was both a coward and just smart enough to know that Will was too big a predator to challenge.

Walking out into the rain, the tin box and watch protected under the ­high-­visibility ­police-­issue jacket he’d changed into after the weather turned, Will put both items on the passenger seat of his vehicle, then ran around to get into the driver’s seat.

He made a call on his way back into town, asking Tom Taufa to meet him at the café. The other man was waiting when he got there. “I was at the fire station,” he said as he let Will into the café’s back room. “That’s Miri’s corner there.”

A much newer computer sat on a spacious desk, along with several cameras.

Metal jangled as Tom took a key off his key ring. “I have to get back to ­Josie—­she’s not doing so good. Stay as long as you like, keep the key in case you want to look at stuff again.” He dug in his pocket. “I asked Josie about the computer after you called and she said there’s a password.” Handing over the piece of paper on which he’d scribbled the mix of numbers and letters, he said, “Josie knows it because technically the computer is the café’s, for accounts and things, but she mostly got it for Miri to use.”