Vincent’s intense expression gentled. “You two don’t actually have that much in common.”

“I know.” She said what he wanted her to say, what he needed her to ­say—­alone on a windswept cliff was not the time to antagonize a man who spoke with easy casualness about ending his wife’s life. “I don’t expect us to become best friends. But I’m still enough of the Golden Cove girl to not want a visitor to feel unwelcome.”

He chuckled. “Jemima would’ve had an easier time of it in South Africa, but she didn’t have the head to go into the family business. Being my wife, looking after my children with the nanny’s help, looking good for photos, that’s more her strength. She’d last about two minutes in the real world.”

Anahera stared at his profile as he turned to look at the ocean; he wasn’t even attempting to be subtle. Or was he so used to putting Jemima down that this was his normal, and Anahera had just never spoken to him long enough on this subject to see it?

There was another, more dangerous option: Vincent didn’t care about showing her his true face because he didn’t expect her to have a chance to tell anyone about it.

“Will you be happy together now, do you think?” She kept her tone friendly with furious effort of will. “Can you get past your feelings for Miriama?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Vincent’s tone changed, became almost confessional. “Miriama made me happy inside from the instant I saw her as a woman, but I’ve always had something else that never fails to give me joy. I’ve decided to go back to that old hobby.”

Anahera took a step backward, her body poised to ­run… But she was too late. The Taser was in Vincent’s hand well before she was out of range. “It’s so hard to get an unregistered gun in this country,” he said. “Especially when you have a profile and people want to hold things over you. Even getting this was a bit of a ­mission—­but it’s worked out the better choice for my needs.”

Anahera held up her hands. “What are you doing?” She thought of the phone she had tucked in her back pocket, knew there was no way she could make the call before being hit and disabled.

“Haven’t you figured it out, sweet little Ana?” The same angelic smile he’d given her so many times across the years. “Slim, dark haired, dark eyed, vibrant with ­life—­my father kept her in Auckland, introduced me to her on my thirteenth birthday, when it was time for me to become a man.”

His face twisted. “Be a man, Vincent! Fuck her like you mean it! Slap and choke the bitch until she does what you want! Baker men aren’t pussies!” The ugliness faded, the angelic smile back in place. “I got a taste for a certain kind of woman.”

Anahera’s gorge rose. “That’s unforgivable. You were a child.”

“You’re a good person, Ana.” The hand holding the weapon never wavered. “It is a little sad to be so predictable in my tastes, but oh well, it makes me happy.” He chuckled, as if he’d made a joke. “And the bastard’s bones are worm food, so it’s not like he can crow over it.”

Anahera’s breath came in shallow pants. “The murders,” she said. “The hikers.”

“Clap, clap.” His voice was smooth, warm. “I didn’t feel the urge to indulge while I was with my Miriama. But with her gone, I need to find happiness in life again.”

“What about all those years after the three hikers?” Anahera scrambled to keep him talking. “You and Miriama only got together after she turned eighteen.”

“Yes, I differ from my father ­there—­I don’t like children.” A shrug. “I travel a lot. New Zealand is an inconveniently small country for a man with my needs.” He sighed. “People here miss women.”

A knot formed in the pit of Anahera’s stomach. If he was openly telling her of his murderous history, there was no way she’d be able to talk her way out of this. But the longer she kept him talking, the longer she gave herself to think.

Her one advantage was that he seemed to want to talk, want to boast about his exploits. “You killed Miriama because she walked away from you?”

Patches of red on his face, his eyes blazing. “I would’ve won her back! That pissant doctor has nothing on what I could’ve given her.” Cold words that trembled. “I didn’t put a finger on my Miriama. All I did was love her.”

Anahera ran rapidly through her options. She could go right, toward the bush, or she could go left, toward the cliffs. She had no idea of a Taser’s range, but she knew Vincent was a fast runner. He’d been a sprinter in high school. He was also dressed in running shoes while she wore her normal everyday boots.

Out in the open, he’d catch her in a heartbeat. Her only chance was to go into the bush and lose herself amid the dense dark green.

Sweat trickled down her back. “Since it’s just the two of us,” she said, slowly putting down her hands while making sure to keep them in open view, “can I ask you some questions before you kill me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you hoping your washed-­up cop will come rescue you?”

“I don’t expect any man to rescue me.”

Expression nearly tender, Vincent said, “Your father’s a cowardly shit. If you want me to get rid of him, I’ll do it as a special favor.”

“No, I want him to stew in regret.” She flexed her muscles as much as she could to prepare for her break toward the trees. “As for the questions, call it curiosity. It’s not every day I find out my friend is a serial killer.”

His laugh was golden sunshine. “I always loved the ­smart-­aleck things you’d say.” Such affection in his voice and yet he planned to brutalize then murder her. “It’s all for the greater good, Ana. You should be proud to be one of my women.”

“Strange, but pride’s not my topmost emotion right now.”

More laughter, utter delight in every inch of him. “All right, ask your questions,” he said after wiping the tears from his eyes. “We’ve got plenty of time and I’ll hear anyone coming down the drive. If the cop does get suspicious, the pathetic creature I married will say exactly what I tell her to say.”

Anahera knew Vincent was feeding off her fear, but she couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster, her blood from pumping harder and harder. “When did you find out you liked murder?”

“It was by accident,” he said in a conversational tone. “I was walking in the bush one day, pissed off at my spineless excuse for a mother, when I ran into a ­dark-­eyed Italian hiker who reminded me of my father’s whore and how much fun I’d had slapping her around.”

His smile reached his eyes. “All that repressed anger, you know? God, it was fun to have an outlet. Best gift the bastard ever gave me.” Affection in his voice, so real she might’ve believed it if she hadn’t already realized that Vincent put on emotions like other people put on clothes. “The hiker was really cute and she was all smiley and she said hello with that accent, and I had a rock in my hand and I just smashed her head in with it.”