A Madness of Sunshine

by Singh, Nalini

  “Look at the name of the company that designed the website.” Will pointed out the tiny script at the bottom of the first page that linked back to a company under Vincent’s umbrella. “It’s almost as if that’s all he sees her ­as—­the perfect, beautiful wife. Not a fully rounded woman.”

  Anahera turned in her seat so that she was facing Will. “What brought on this line of questioning?”

  Walking over to retake his own seat, Will picked up his coffee to take a drink before answering. “The news will be all over town tomorrow anyway,” he began. “That accident I mentioned? The reason I was drenched?”

  Anahera nodded.

  “Vincent drove his car into a ditch.”

  “My God. Is ­he—­”

  “He’s fine. A cut on the head, but it doesn’t look serious. He told me he skidded because of the rain, but I don’t think that’s true. I think he was distracted and not paying attention.”

  Anahera sucked in a breath, a sudden knot in her gut. “At the fire station, he was adamant that the search continue. He seems very passionate about finding Miriama alive.”

  “ ‘Passionate’ is the appropriate word.” Will shoved back his hair with one hand. “He’s admitted to having a crush on Miriama. You know him better than I ­do—­do you think he’d cheat on his wife?”

  She did know Vincent. He was one of her oldest friends. And this cop was asking her to betray him.

  Getting up, she went to check the fire. It crackled and sparked in direct contrast to the heavy drumming of rain on the cabin’s tin roof, the howling wind held barely at bay. “As a child,” she found herself saying after getting up from her crouch, “I always loved storms. The sounds, the smell of ozone in the air, how my mother would sleep over with me so I wouldn’t be scared.”

  Anahera stared down at the ­orange-­red glow of the flames. “I wasn’t scared, but I never told her because I liked it so much when she stayed with me.” Her mother’s body had been a warm bulk, one that meant love and affection and safety.

  “I used to like storms, ­too—­before I became a cop,” Will said from his seat at the table. “You’d be surprised how stupid people get during this kind of weather. Worst is when cabin fever sets in.”

  “Do people hurt each other more?” Her father had punched her mother so often that Anahera had seen no difference during storms.

  “Yes. And it’s mostly people who know each other and say they love one another.”

  The words fell in between them like unexploded grenades. She saw realization dawn in his eyes a second later. He immediately shook his head. “That wasn’t a dig. Every cop I know hates domestic violence callouts. They have a tendency to go bad very quickly.”

  Anahera turned her attention back to the fire, to the flames and the heat and the warmth that couldn’t reach the ice in her heart. “No need to tiptoe around the truth,” she said. “My father did beat my mother. Badly. Everyone in Golden Cove knows that.”

  It was impossible to hide bruises when they went three deep.

  “Nikau and Josie tell me he’s turned over a new leaf, goes to AA meetings every month. But that doesn’t change the past, does it? It doesn’t disappear my mother’s black eyes and broken bones and splintered spirit. It doesn’t bring her back.”

  Anahera didn’t believe in forgiveness, not for that crime. Whether or not Jason Rawiri had physically pushed her off that ladder, sociable Haeata had only lived in this cabin far from her friends because she owned nothing else. Jason had taken it all, every cent she’d ever earned. Only Anahera’s grandparents’ cabin remained. A safe place for Haeata to move with her daughter, but not one she could’ve sold for any real gain. As it was, even with Anahera contributing through ­part-­time jobs, they’d barely managed the outgoings.

  If Haeata had had the money to rent in town, a neighbor would’ve noticed she wasn’t around outside pottering away. Someone would’ve checked on her.

  And Anahera’s mother wouldn’t have bled to death cold and alone.

  “I can’t answer your question about Vincent’s loyalty to his wife,” she said into the heavy silence. “The boy I knew was the straightest arrow in our group. But those pictures he puts up of Jemima, like she’s a shiny trophy and not a real ­person… that’s not the Vincent I know.”

  Her mind kept gnawing on the whole thing. What if it wasn’t just bragging about a trophy or showing off? What if he wanted to shape his wife’s image to keep others at a distance from her?

  Why would he do that? Consciously isolate Jemima?

  The cold in Anahera’s bones turned as brittle as her mother’s ­too-­often-­fractured left arm. “You don’t think he might be hurting her?”

  “I’ve never seen any indications of that.” Will rose to join her by the fire. “But people are good at hiding the bruises. A woman in Jemima’s position, with such a strong public profile, would probably work extra hard to make sure no one found out.”

  “My mother wasn’t wealthy or ­well-­known like Jemima, but she was still ashamed to admit that her husband beat her.” Even though everyone already knew. “She couldn’t bear it that others would think her weak.” Never understanding the shame wasn’t hers but his. “The psychological damage can be as debilitating as the physical.”

  Will nodded. “And Jemima probably hasn’t got anyone to turn to in this country.”

  It was only then Anahera remembered that Vincent had met his wife in South Africa. “She doesn’t have an accent.”

  “I always thought that was a political move meant to help Vincent.” Will braced his forearm on the mantel. “Losing the accent and trying to sound like a local.”

  The more Anahera thought about what they were considering, the heavier the stone in her gut. “Vincent’s been my friend for a long time and I’ve never once seen him be ­violent—­to anyone. He’s the one who always broke up the schoolyard fights.” Jemima could well be a willing coconspirator in her glamorous public image. “Maybe the glamour is to help build up her profile so she’ll have media clout when Vincent launches his campaign.” It was a more realistic possibility than educated and connected Jemima having nowhere to turn. “The world likes following the lives of beautiful people. And glamorous political wives get a lot of airtime.”

  “No one really knows much about the situation inside the Baker house,” was the disturbing answer. “Vincent and Jemima invite people up for dinner now and then. I got an invite the month I moved ­in—­but all I saw was the flawless veneer. The smiling hostess, the ­good-­humored host, the perfect, ­well-­behaved children who didn’t throw a tantrum or fidget when paraded out to meet a stranger.”

  Putting both hands against the ­rough-­hewn wood of the mantel, Anahera stared at the flames as the wind threatened to tear off the roof. “I have an open invitation from Jemima to visit. I’m going to take her up on it.” She needed answers, needed to find out if there was something terrible going on in Vincent’s house.

  Because if there was and Anahera looked away, she’d never forgive herself.

  “If nothing else, I want to let her know she has a friend in Golden Cove. She must know my family history by now.” Anahera had never before consciously used that history, but if it would help a woman trapped in a violent home, then she didn’t think her mother would mind. Haeata had been one of the most generous people she’d ever known.

  “That’s a good idea,” Will said. “She’d never trust me the way she might trust you.” Moving away from the fire, he began to pace across her small cabin, the floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet.

  Anahera turned and found herself watching those feet, big and slightly pale as they walked back and forth, back and forth. “Miriama is very young for Vincent,” she said, going back to his question about cheating. “­But… Jemima is the perfect wife. The kind of wife Vincent’s parents always wanted for him. We didn’t email much, but when he invited me to their wedding, he mentioned that she was the daughter of family friends.”

  W
ill paused in midstep. “A ­modern-­day arranged marriage?”

  “That was my feeling.” Anahera couldn’t shake the sense of disloyalty, but she also couldn’t let this go now that Will had planted the seed in her head. It didn’t matter who it was, if someone was making another person’s life hell while putting on an act of loving and cherishing that person, then Anahera would do everything in her power to change that.

  Thunder boomed at that moment, lightning flashing beyond the windows.

  Walking to the front door, she opened it. The cold swept in, but it wasn’t a blast, the wind and the rain both slanting in from the opposite direction for now. It allowed her to stand in the doorway and watch the storm rage above the ocean, a cauldron of ­bruise-­colored clouds and black fire.

  She was aware of Will coming up behind her, a large solid presence, and suddenly her body, which had been in deep freeze for seven months, decided to wake up. It liked the smell of this cop, liked the look of him, liked those moody eyes and the way he was hunting so hard for a girl many in his position would’ve forgotten.

  “Do you have any other clues? Anything to go on?” she asked, shoving back the part of her that wanted to turn to him and say, “Let’s go to bed.” The mindless physical act would offer a little relief to her body, but her anger and her grief would all still be there in the morning.

  “I located the watch,” he said. “It’s too unique to have come from an ordinary shop.”

  “International, you think?”

  “We start here first. I’m planning to go to Christchurch, show it around the ­high-­end and custom jewelers, see if anyone recognizes it.”

  “How about sending them a photograph? Wouldn’t that speed things up?”

  “I want to see their ­faces—­it’s an expensive enough piece that the jeweler might feel the need to be protective of the client’s privacy.”

  Staring out at the huge waves slamming into shore, Anahera said, “You really shouldn’t be driving in this.”

  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 sweatsh
irt, 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.

  Will ran his thumb over one of the stickers.

  It was such a girly thing for a young woman as beautiful and as experienced at handling men as Miriama appeared to be; some part of her, Will realized, was still a girl. Dreaming of hearts and flowers.

  Jaw hard, he checked the first page, then the last one in which she’d written something. A glance at the dates confirmed this was Miriama’s most recent journal. It appeared to span a year, beginning about six months after Miriama would’ve turned eighteen. From the amount of pages filled, it was clear she hadn’t journaled every day.