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 freeze 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.”