He left her with a hard kiss and a silent warning she heard as clear as day: Don’t let down your guard. Jemima might not be as innocent as she appears.

That, of course, was what the media hounds were baying. They wanted to scream at Jemima, ask her if she’d known. If she said no, they’d ask her how she could’ve possibly not known.

Anahera wasn’t naïve. She didn’t think Jemima was innocent in everything. The other woman had known about Vincent’s affair but helped him create the image of a perfect family man nonetheless. But Jemima wasn’t involved in murder, of that she was certain. Vincent hadn’t valued his wife enough to bring her into his psychopathic daydreams.

After placing her new laptop bag on the passenger seat of the Jeep, she brought up Jemima’s number and made the call. She’d already tried once, but Jemima hadn’t responded. Not wanting to put further pressure on a woman already trapped in a nightmare, she’d left it at that, sure that Jemima’s wealthy family would swoop in and rescue her. But either they were total assholes, or Jemima had frozen them out, too, because no strangers had come through the Cove except for the reporters.

Once again, the phone rang and rang. She was just about to hang up when Jemima picked up. “Ana?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she said. “You want company? I can bring up coffees.”

A pause before Jemima said, “Can you get hot chocolates for the kids, too? More milk than chocolate? They’re going ­stir-­crazy cooped up in the house.”

“Consider it done. Should I push the buzzer at the gate when I arrive?”

“No, call me on your phone. The reporters kept pushing the buzzer so I disabled it on this end, and someone’s smashed out the security camera so I can’t see who’s at the gate.”

Probably an unscrupulous reporter hoping to sneak up without being spotted. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

Once in the café, Anahera placed the drinks order with the temporary barista Josie had ­hired—­one of Shane Hennessey’s groupies. It turned out the girl had been a barista in Wellington before she came to Golden Cove. And she was good. But it was unsettling to see another beautiful, lissome girl behind the counter.

“How’s the job going?” Anahera forced herself to ask.

Dark eyes shone at her. “It’s a little weird. People keep asking me about the girl who died, and I didn’t know her. But mostly, it’s nice. Super busy with all the out-­of-­towners—­I’m glad I’m not having to manage alone.”

“Tania’s good company.” Josie had hired Tania Meikle to wait tables at the same time that she’d hired the barista; Josie herself was now out of commission. Her ankles had been heavily swollen yesterday when Anahera dropped by to see her before heading to Will’s place.

“Yeah, she is. She’s just popped out to deliver an order to the B&B.” Frothy steamed milk poured onto the reduced amount of chocolate.

“She got the sitter situation sorted?”

“Her husband’s ­mother—­lady’s kinda ­prune-­faced, but Tans says she’s nice to the baby.” She put the lids on the children’s drinks, then began on the coffees. “You want some cake, too?”

Memory slammed into Anahera. Of another girl and another piece of cake.

“Yes,” she said. “Box up six cupcakes.” The kids would enjoy them and Jemima could probably do with a little sugar and comfort, too.

She managed to get everything to the Jeep in one trip, as the barista had put the drinks into a cardboard holder that proved stable, and the cakes were in a small carry box. Drinks balanced on the passenger seat and kept from falling by the cake box on one side and her laptop bag on the other, Anahera pulled out into the street.

She made sure all her windows were raised and her doors locked before she turned into the drive of the May estate. Halfway along and her upward momentum turned into a crawl; the sides of the drive were lined with TV vans from both national and international networks, large SUVs with radio station logos and satellite dishes on the top, even a small bus.

Vincent’s arrest had made news headlines around the world. He’d visited a lot of towns and cities, and all those towns and cities were currently combing through their missing person files, looking for women and girls who fit the profile of Vincent’s known victims. So far, the authorities had revealed five possible matches.

Every single face had sent a chill up Anahera’s spine.

All those faces, all those women, they could’ve been her sisters. Different races, different cultures, but there was something eerily similar that tied them together.

Able to see the knot of reporters up above, she kept her eyes on her goal. The vultures swarmed around her the instant she got within reach. Honking her horn, she continued to move forward. The instant she stopped, the rabid mob would take it as a cue to keep her locked in place until she gave them something.

That’s what they’d done after Edward’s death. It hadn’t been this bad, of course. There’d been no questions around the nature of his passing, but the media had still wanted a sound bite from the “grieving widow” of “a dramatic genius taken before his time.”

Anahera had given them nothing then and she’d give them nothing now.

Lighting flashes through the windscreen, the photographers taking her image in the hope of somehow being able to use it. Someone would eventually identify her, but it mattered little in the grand scheme of things. This wasn’t London, a city she’d first inhabited as Edward’s “ingénue bride,” the “unspoiled” young woman who’d stolen his heart right under the noses of society beauties.

Everyone had wanted to meet her.

Anahera had never been comfortable in that role, but the glamour and attention made Edward happy so she’d gone along with it. It was a small sacrifice, she’d thought, when he loved it so much. Then her music unexpectedly caught the attention of a record executive and her identity was reshaped ­again—­from ingénue to “gifted pianist.” Edward had gloried in that, too, in being part of one of London’s “reigning creative couples.”

He’d been proud of her skill, had spent hours lying on the couch on Sunday mornings listening to her play.

That had been no illusion.

Right then, as she fought the media, she was unexpectedly glad he’d had those moments in the sun, her flawed, talented, lying, loving husband.

Camera crew jostled for space, trying to get better shots of Anahera’s face. She didn’t attempt to hide ­it—­she’d be in court sooner or later as a witness anyway.

Finally halting, with her bumper only an inch from the sliding gate, she waited until one of the patrol officers reached her, then lowered her window. “Mrs. Baker is expecting me,” Anahera said. “She’ll open the gate when I call.”

The cop said something into the radio at his shoulder, listened as he received a message back. “Give us two minutes to clear the horde from the gate. And look out for the ­dogs—­they’ll come running the instant the gate begins to open.”

As Anahera watched, the cops got on with the job. The reporters didn’t resist ­much—­probably because the memory of that ­dog-­mauled cameraman was still fresh in their minds. Ana made the call after the officer gave her a nod. “Jemima, I’m at the gate.”