A tremulous smile. “You think so?”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

The smile brightened then disappeared. “I didn’t know,” the other woman said, her voice hollow. “Those nights when he disappeared, I thought he was going out and sleeping with other women. Maybe prostitutes. It was the worst thing I could imagine.”

“I don’t think murder is the default assumption for any wife when her husband goes missing overnight.” Anahera leaned forward. “The media are going to hound you. If you decide to do an interview, control it.”

“I won’t be talking to reporters,” Jemima murmured. “My oldest sister, Catherine, is a lawyer. She’s always been the strongest and mostly, I try to keep out of her way, but I called her and I asked her if the children and I can disappear.”

A long exhale, traces of her South African accent slipping back into her words as she continued. “Catherine said it’ll be next to impossible in a small country where every news channel and outlet is going to be carrying this story for months, maybe years, along with photos of Vincent and me. At least they’ve been decent enough to spare the children.”

She took a gulp of the tepid coffee. “It’s also a huge story in South Africa because of my family’s standing there.” More whispers of the accent, more cracks in the veneer of perfection demanded by Vincent and produced by this woman who’d loved him. “My face is apparently everywhere.”

“You need to go somewhere you can start afresh.” Some people might call that running away, but fuck those sanctimonious pricks. They weren’t living this horror. “Europe?”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Vincent’s known in London, and in a few cities like Paris and Milan, but most of his business interests are in the US and China. Catherine says the story hasn’t gained much traction in Europe beyond London.”

Jemima turned her lips inward to wet them before continuing. “I was an exchange student in Germany during high school. I speak the language and I know how things work there. It has a population of tens of millions. We could vanish in all those people, just three more blond heads in the crowd.”

Anahera reached out a hand, closed it over Jemima’s wrist. “Go,” she whispered. “Take care of yourself and your children. Be selfish.”

“The police haven’t told me I can’t go, but they’ve strongly suggested I stay in the country. They want me to give evidence of the nights Vincent was gone over the years.” A haunted look in her eyes. “I kept diaries.” Pressing her lips together desperately, she squeezed her eyes shut for long seconds.

“Did you hand them over?” Anahera asked when she was sure Jemima could speak without breaking.

“During the second interview,” was the husky reply. “After I couldn’t lie to myself any longer, after they played me a tape of Vincent confessing to the most horrible, awful things.”

“Then you’ve done more than enough. Vincent’s happily ­talking—­he’s never again going to walk free, whether or not you testify.” Anahera knew that if Jemima didn’t get out now, she’d be caught in the endless loop of trials and appeals and ­game-­playing by Vincent.

“He called me.” Jemima’s fingers trembled around the coffee cup. “From the prison. And he was my Vincent. Oh, God, Ana, if I stay here, I’m so scared I’ll never break free.” A harsh whisper. “He’ll always have me.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can.” No way was Anahera allowing Vincent to claim another victim. “If the police have frozen your assets, I’ll give you my bank card for my London account.” There was plenty of money in it, more than enough to help a woman who needed to get on her feet. “You can access it all over Europe and no one will ever trace it to you.”

Jemima glanced over at her children, then back at Anahera. “What ­if… what if I knew something? What if I suspected in the darkest part of night? What if I saw a speck of blood on one of Vincent’s polo shirts one night after he came home?”

Holding those eyes of sea green, Jemima’s pupils hugely dilated, Anahera kept her voice quiet as she said, “What did he do to you after he came home those nights?”

Jemima’s hand flew to her mouth, muffling a cry. “How did you know?” she whispered through ­white-­knuckled fingers.

Because she’d looked into a friend’s face and seen a monster hot with sexual arousal. Death, fear, it had been erotic to Vincent. “He wears masks, Jemima. Husband, friend, reliable member of the town. But beneath it all, he’s fundamentally twisted.”

Tears shimmered in Jemima’s eyes. Dropping her hand, she said, “Do you think it was because of what his father did?”

“I don’t know.” The elder Bakers weren’t here to defend themselves against the accusations. “But to have two sons turn ­out… wrong. It’s tough to believe that’s coincidence.”

“I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I want the abuse story to be true.” Jemima threw a desperate glance toward where Jasper and Chloe were involved in an animated discussion about building a castle. “Then my babies can be free. They’ll never have to worry about being born with evil inside them.”

“I remember playing with Vincent on the beach when we were maybe six. He used to make disgusting noises with his armpit, laugh at how the seagulls fought, make me crazy by putting sand down my back then running like hell when I chased him, all normal ­little-­boy things.” Anahera had nearly forgotten that distant childhood summer.

It hurt to remember it now, to remember that ­bright-­eyed boy who might not have been born a monster. “He got quieter slowly. I never really thought about it, it was so gradual, but he changed in a deep way from the wild little boy who collected shells for our sandcastle and who only watched the hermit crabs but didn’t catch them.”

“Thank you,” Jemima whispered, her hand clutching at Anahera’s. “Thank you.”

They watched the children for several long minutes.

“It wasn’t rape,” Jemima said so low it was barely audible. “It couldn’t be rape. I loved him.”

But in Jemima’s face, Anahera saw that she didn’t believe her own words. “Promise me one thing,” she said. “You’ll talk to someone about all of this once you’re safe. A therapist, a priest, someone.”

“Will ­you… will you stay in touch?” A hunted, flinched look.

“Try to get rid of me.” She made eye contact, held it. “Kia kaha, Jemima. You’ve survived evil that sought to crush you. You will endure.”

65

Will went straight to Dominic de Souza’s surgery after separating from Anahera. The Closed sign was on the door, but when he walked over to Dominic’s place, no one responded to his knock.

“He left a while ago,” a neighbor yelled out to Will. “Poor fella. Just walking, shoulders all hunched in.”

“Did you see which direction he went?”

It was inevitable that she’d point toward the ocean.