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.”