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.”

The cop’s answer was indirect. “You probably have things you want to get from the big stores in Christchurch. If you want a ride there, come by the station around ten tomorrow ­morning—­storm should be well over by then.” He was gone a second later, lost in the rain mere footsteps from the house.

Anahera didn’t realize she was holding her breath until his headlights came on. The twin beams swung toward the ocean before she was faced with red taillights blurred by rain into smudges. Moments later, they began to fade into the distance, the cop heading back to the town he’d vowed to protect and serve.

Long after he’d left, Anahera stood in the doorway of the home where she’d found her mother’s lifeless body, and stared out to the sea that may have taken a hopeful young life.

31

Will watched Anahera’s cabin be swallowed up by the storm and had to fight the urge to stop his vehicle and turn around, go back. He wondered what she’d do, if they could recapture that one fragmentary instant that could’ve ended the night a whole other way.

He shook his head.

No, going down that route was not an option; Anahera might’ve been away from Golden Cove for eight years, but her loyalties were openly divided. Putting either one of them in that position would further mess up an already messy situation. But at least now he ­knew—­his body wasn’t dead. Because it had definitely reacted to Anahera with her prickliness and her anger and her presence that was as untamed as this landscape.

Will wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d been quite comfortable being ­half-­alive. He didn’t want to come back to full life. Especially not when a young woman was missing, he had a budding psychopath in his town, and the one man everyone thought a good guy might be beating his beautiful wife.

He drove at a snail’s pace. He was confident of his driving ability, but he wasn’t so confident of anyone else who might have decided to venture out into the night. The world was an ugly maelstrom beyond the windscreen, the trees and native ferns hidden by a gloom that suffocated all life.

Finally pulling up to a stop in his drive, under the carport, he got out. At least he wouldn’t get much wetter. The carport was connected to the house on one side, though the wind and rain continued to howl in from the three open sides.

Going to the back of the SUV, he removed the items he’d hidden in the secure space beneath the spare tire well, then locked up and moved in the direction of the door into the house. Unlike most of the people in Golden Cove, he always locked his door, so it took him an extra couple of seconds to get in.

Just as he was about to step inside, his mind on a hot shower and dry clothes, he got that crawling sensation on the back of the neck that said someone was watching him. But when he looked out into the blackness, he saw nothing. The storm was too violent, the rain coming down in slashing sheets.

Will stood there unafraid, staring down whoever it was that thought they could intimidate the ­small-­town cop. Maybe he was going mad, the dead little boy who followed him around ready to take his due. But Will didn’t think ­so—­someone stood out there in the rain, watching him, wondering what he knew.

Will was glad he’d put the watch and tin in a thick yellow plastic shopping bag earlier that ­night—­his only aim back then had been to give the evidence a little extra protection from the rain. But now, even if the person watching had managed to spot his actions despite the terrible visibility, they had no way of knowing what it was he had inside the bag.

The crawling sensation faded at last.

Not entering the house until at least five more minutes had passed, he locked the door behind himself, then checked the lounge, kitchen, and spare bedroom. It didn’t take ­long—­the place was no mansion, though, judging from their style choices, the owners had clearly considered it their castle.

The two ­old-­fashioned rifles mounted crisscross above the mantel had been lovingly polished and dust free when Will moved in. The first thing he’d done was to pull them off and check their status. As they’d been properly decommissioned and were now nothing but decorative, he’d put them back in place. Neither had he moved the overstuffed sofa upholstered in bright orange and black stripes. It wasn’t as if he ever sat in the lounge.

The rest of the house cleared, he took the evidence with him into his bedroom. He was probably acting paranoid for a cop in a small town, but he’d been a cop in a much bigger town, and he knew that homes weren’t always safe.

Homes were where people let down their guards and invited the monsters in.

Which was why he locked his bedroom door, too, before checking to ensure his windows were locked. He wasn’t worried about ­himself—­but he needed to take a hot shower, and he didn’t want the evidence stolen in the interim.

After stripping with quick motions, he left the bathroom door open as he stepped into the shower just long enough to warm up from the inside out. The fire at Anahera’s had done a good job of chasing out the chill, but the damp shirt he’d put back on, while distracted by a moment that shouldn’t have happened, had undone that during the drive here. Stepping out of the shower only a couple of minutes later, he looked out at his bedroom to confirm nothing had been disturbed.

No sign of an intruder.

A fast rubdown to dry himself before he pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt, then he took the evidence and a pair of disposable gloves with him into the kitchen. There, he made himself a cup of decaffeinated ­coffee—­any more caffeine and he’d probably be wired all night.

Sitting down at his small kitchen table with a notepad, pen, and the mug of coffee on one side, he put on the gloves before emptying the plastic shopping bag. Leaving the watch in its evidence bag for now, he retrieved the tin box and looked at the rusted lock. It definitely needed a key. But Will didn’t have time to waste waiting on a locksmith and he had Matilda’s permission to open it. No court in the world would throw out any evidence he uncovered as a result.

First, however, he found his camera and took photos of everything. A small ruler from the junk drawer acted as a scale marker.

He’d continue to document as he went.

Next, he decided to grab his toolbox and see what he could do with the lock. It didn’t take much to break it. Putting it aside, where he’d eventually place it into an evidence bag, he carefully opened the lid. Then, though he wanted to immediately pick up the book on the top, he grabbed the camera instead and took several photographs of the contents.

Only once he’d documented everything in situ did he pick up the ­bronze-­colored book he’d seen, the word Journal written in curly gold writing across the front. Someone had also pasted small heart stickers around the edges of the word.