Frustration gnawed at Anahera, but she didn’t argue. This might be a small town, the rules not as hard and fast, but Will was a cop, a good one. And Anahera wasn’t about to mess up a future trial by being where she shouldn’t be; evidence mattered, blood splatter mattered. “I’ll keep my phone with me.”

Walking him to the door, she thought about if she should kiss him ­good-­bye, but what they’d done in the night wasn’t quite settling in the pale dark before dawn.

“I’ll call you,” Will repeated before heading out across the porch. He was halfway down the steps when he turned and came back. Closing one hand around the side of her face, he pressed his lips to hers.

Embers low in her belly ignited, but this was no long burn. Will drew back almost at once and jogged over to get into the police SUV. She watched him reverse into the mist, her lips burning from his kiss and her face bearing the imprint of his palm.

47

Will’s radio crackled as he drove away from a woman for whom he’d never planned. Despite not having any staff who might contact him, he wasn’t surprised by the static. Something about the area did funny things to his radio every now and then. One of the old bushmen had been with Will during a previous static burst; he’d immediately made the sign of the cross.

“Ghost,” he’d muttered. “Never figured one would want to haunt a cop car.”

Will wasn’t afraid of ghosts. It was the ­real-­life monsters walking around that terrified him. Not for the first time, he thought about Vincent Baker and how his mask of grief had slipped when Will mentioned speaking to his wife, how quickly Miriama had changed from his true love to an object he’d used and discarded.

Then there was Kyle Baker.

Both hiding in plain sight. But where Kyle’s ego led him to flip off authority, Vincent had played the part of a trustworthy friend and neighbor his entire adult life. He’d never let the mask slip in public. Which, to Will’s mind, made Vincent the more dangerous of the two brothers.

And Will had nothing on either Baker.

What he did ­have—­courtesy of an email that had come through last night after ­dinner—­was a disturbing report about Tom Taufa: Assault on a girlfriend when he was thirteen and spending the summer with his grandparents in Tonga. Bad enough to have left the girl with a broken nose.

All of which Will only knew because of that scribbled anonymous note telling him to “look into Tom Taufa’s record in Tonga.” He’d followed it up to cross it off the list, never expecting his contact to confirm the allegations.

Boy was never officially charged, the other officer had written. Families sorted it out between themselves. Felt sorry for Tom because his father had been in and out of prison since he was a baby, and his mother had mental health problems.

But the villagers have long memories, and it was a big, shameful thing for his grandparents. They say he’s been making it up to them ­since—­and the girl involved has forgiven him. Apparently, he even helped pay for her wedding.

Tom hadn’t had a single brush with the law since then, so maybe the shock of what he’d done, accompanied by witnessing his grandparents’ shame, had put him on the straight and narrow. Or maybe Tom Taufa had become a plumber because no one noticed plumbers or thought it strange if they saw a trade van parked on the street.

Tom had also been a poor kid with dysfunctional parents to Vincent’s rich boy cocooned in the heart of a successful family.

Not the kind of boy who’d be gifted a puppy by his father.

Will’s hands flexed on the steering wheel as he drove through the eerily silent town. Even Josie’s café was cold and ­dark—­he was used to seeing a light in there in the early morning hours, as Josie and Miriama got to work on the day’s baking. Julia Lee provided the cakes, but the breads, pies, and other products were all made in-­house. Every so often, when he had an extremely early start, he’d knock on the door and the women would open up to make him a coffee to take on the road.

The weather didn’t help the sense of gloom that clung to Golden Cove.

The clouds had returned with a vengeance; they hung black and heavy, just waiting to thunder down with rain. He always had a couple of tarps in the back of the SUV, along with some tent poles, in case he had to protect a crime scene from rain, but even as he turned into the road that led to the dump, he was hoping there was nothing to protect, nothing to see.

The idea of Miriama forever gone, all that light, all that talent snuffed out, it seemed hellishly wrong. But hellishly wrong things did happen. Sometimes, they happened to small boys, and sometimes, they happened to beautiful young women just about to spread their wings.

Parking his vehicle in the same spot he had when he’d come out here with Anahera, he grabbed a flashlight, then ran across the dump to the spot where the informant had told him he’d be waiting. “Shane!” he called out from a short distance away, after spotting the writer sitting on what looked to be an upturned plastic crate.

The other man jerked up his head, the dark curls of his hair tumbling across his forehead. “You actually came,” he said, getting to his feet and thrusting that hair back with a shaking hand. “I’d almost convinced myself I’d hallucinated the entire nightmare.”

Taking in the other man’s stark white features and dilated irises, Will said, “You don’t have to come with me. Just tell me where you found it.”

Shuddering, Shane sank back down on his makeshift seat. “That way”—­he ­pointed—­“about fifty feet in. Follow the path.”

Will had a lot of questions for Shane, chief among them, what the hell he was doing here at this time of the ­morning—­it wasn’t even five ­thirty—­but first, he had to see what the other man had found.

Heading in the direction Shane had indicated, he followed the pathway of ­beaten-­down grass that looked to have seen several pairs of booted feet relatively recently.

Shane’s find was impossible to miss.

Bones, bleached so white they glowed under the beam of the flashlight.

A full skeleton.

Nothing appeared to be missing. Not the smallest finger or toe bone. And while Will was no forensic anthropologist, he had eyes. The leg bones weren’t anywhere near long enough for a woman of Miriama’s height.

48

Will had kept his promise to Anahera. He’d called.

Just long enough to say, “It’s not Miriama.”

The full horror of his words had only penetrated after he hung up. Because Will hadn’t said there was no body. Just that it wasn’t Miriama’s. Which meant someone else was dead.

The first thing Anahera did was call Josie.

Please answer. Please answer.

Her relief when her friend said a cheery, “Hello, Ana. Are you keeping baker’s hours now?” threatened to crumple her to her knees.

Wrenching it together, she somehow managed to sound normal in her reply. “You prepping for the café at home?”

“Yes, Tom doesn’t want me in there alone right now.” A pause. “I don’t want to go anyway. It feels awful knowing Miri won’t walk in the door yawning and demanding a coffee before we get to work.”