by Nalini Singh
Which meant the handsome Baker scion was still living up to his family’s expectations. “He looked happy in the last photos I saw of him—with his wife and the kids.”
“Yeah, I think he actually is happy. Go figure, huh?” A shrug. “He should be the most messed up one of us with all the pressure his parents put on him.”
Anahera nodded; she’d always felt sorry for Vincent—but he seemed to like the borders on his life, appeared to have thrived inside them. “They weren’t the best parents, I guess, but he and his brother must miss them.”
“Yeah, a fire gutted the old Baker place. No way for them to survive—I went to the funeral. Vin did a nice job of it.”
Anahera would expect nothing less from Vincent. “Come on, I’ll pour you some coffee.” Nik had changed and so had she, but she found she was still comfortable with this angry man who’d once been a hopeful boy she’d known.
Nikau had settled down on a rickety chair he’d dragged from inside, Anahera passing him his coffee and bracing herself with her butt against the porch railing—after checking its sturdiness—when there was the sound of another car coming down the drive. “London has nothing on Golden Cove traffic.”
She’d half expected a cheerful Josie in Tom’s plumbing truck, but it was the police SUV that appeared in view a second later. The long-legged cop with the broad shoulders and the face that was too thin got out soon afterward.
“Will.” Nikau raised his coffee cup. “You come to do a welfare check on our returnee?”
“Nik. Ms. Spencer-Ashby.”
His words were a punch to the solar plexus. “Anahera is fine.” Rawiri or Spencer-Ashby, she wanted to claim neither surname. “Would you like some coffee? I think I have another mug.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass this time.” Impossible to read those eyes, that grim face. “I did want to make sure you had a way of contacting help if you need it. I know there’s no landline phone at this address.”
Anahera wasn’t certain if she was amused or not; it had been a long time since she’d answered to anyone. “I have a mobile phone, just like most of the universe.”
No change in his expression. “You mind checking the signal for me?”
“And if I do?”
No smile. “Then I guess I’ll be doing a welfare check on you every morning.”
Nikau laughed at that, but his tone was serious when he met Anahera’s eyes again. “Will’s right, Ana. You should check. This place is in the middle of nowhere of the middle of nowhere.”
Rolling her eyes, Anahera went inside and grabbed her phone. She brought up the home screen as she walked out . . . and cursed. At least the cop didn’t say “I told you so.” Instead, he said, “I suggest you move to a different provider.” He named which one. “Their signal appears to reach even the far edges of Golden Cove.”
“Upside is their plans are cheap,” Nikau said. “I can lend you my phone until you switch.”
Anahera waved aside the offer. “I’ll be fine. I have nothing to steal and we all know petty burglary is at the top of the Golden Cove crime stats.” Some folks stole out of boredom, others out of poverty.
“Crime isn’t the only threat,” the cop said. “If you have an accident, it’s possible no one will find you for days.”
Anahera could feel herself going white. Squeezing her hand around the phone, she stared at the cop. “You’ve done your job. Far as I know, cops aren’t babysitters.”
7
Will wondered what he’d said. Not only had Anahera iced up, but Nikau’s face had gone hostile between one heartbeat and the next. Mentally tracing back the conversation, he realized it had been his statement about a possible domestic accident that had done it. Obviously, he’d stepped on a nerve. That was what happened when everyone in a small town knew something but no one talked about it: hapless outsiders put their foot in it.
“You’re right,” he said mildly. “I was a terrible babysitter. Used to let my neighbors’ kids eat candy all night.” He nodded at a stony-faced Anahera, then Nikau. “Have a good day.”
He felt their eyes on him as he got into his vehicle, both dark, both impenetrable.
It was a good thing he’d never told himself that he understood Nikau; their friendship was a surface thing based on their liking for the same sport, a good run through the trees, and the odd beer. Will knew Nikau was pissed his ex had married rich-and-liked-people-to-know-it Daniel May, and that Nikau was in the Cove because of that same ex.
That was pretty much the extent of his personal knowledge of Nikau Martin.
Nik knew even less about Will.
As he backed down the drive, unable to turn with Nikau’s truck parked where it was, he was again aware of both of them watching him leave. Watching the outsider leave. He’d never had any illusions about that, either—in a place like this, a man stayed an outsider for decades, no matter how hard he tried.
Of course, Will wasn’t exactly hankering to belong anywhere.
Which made him the perfect cop to send to Golden Cove.
8
Anahera drove to the garage after breakfast, her blood still cold. Peter, unsmiling as always, and just a little strange in a way it was difficult to define, said, “Hi, Ana,” and got to work checking out her engine.
Nothing serious, was the conclusion. He changed a small part, told her the Jeep was a solid investment, then waved off the bill. “Next time won’t be free.”
“Thanks, Peter.” Guilt nipped at her even as she said that. She’d never been able to make herself genuinely like Peter, though she’d tried; he was always nice and he’d never done anything to make her dislike him . . . but the tiny hairs on her nape stood up anytime she was alone with the lanky redhead. “Have a good day.”
He nodded, standing unmoving in the garage entrance as she drove away. It felt as if his muddy green eyes tracked her until she turned onto the main strip. She spotted the cop’s vehicle heading out of town, tried to guess who he was going to see. A number of Cove people lived way out in the wilderness, including a few who didn’t much care for company. But she guessed that was his job—to show his face even in the shadows, make people know the law was around.
She wondered if it was working.
Parking the Jeep outside the café, she got out. But it was only Miriama she found inside. “Jo says her ankles are the size of tree stumps today,” the girl informed Anahera, her smile sunny. “I told her to stay home and have some time to herself since Tom’s taken the boyo with him on a job. With the weather so grizzly, it’ll probably be quiet until the fishing boats come in later today.”
Anahera had almost not noticed the change in the weather—the West Coast was often clear and bright even in winter, but for some reason of geography, the Cove collected what water there was in the atmosphere. The sky was stormy gray today, rain a dark mist that threatened to turn morning into evening. “Who’s out fishing?”
“The usual crazy crew,” Miriama said with a roll of her eyes, but those eyes were warm with affection. “Kev and Tamati and Boris.”
“I know all those names except Boris.”
“Backpacker who washed up here and decided to stay. A year now.” Miriama shook her head. “He’s from St. Petersburg. Decided he liked the quiet of the Cove better.”
“If he’s survived a winter already, maybe he’ll make it.”
“He keeps telling us he’s Russian—‘And Russians know winter. This is nothing.’” Dropping the thick Russian accent with a grin, she moved to her coffee machine. “What’s your poison?”
“Straight black,” Anahera said. “And I’ll take a decaf cappuccino, too. Both to go.”
Miriama made the drinks, then said, “Say hi to Jo for me.” She drew a smiley face on the cup meant for Josie.
“Will do. Thanks, Miri.” The Jeep had no cup holders, but thanks to the cardboard holder Miriama had provid
ed, Anahera managed to make it to Josie’s without spilling. Her friend’s home was a small clapboard house painted a crisp white with a blue-green trim. Josie had planted native ferns around the sides, hardy flowering plants out front.
Going to the door, Anahera tested the knob and, as expected, it turned easily. “Locks exist for a reason!” she called out so Josie wouldn’t get a fright when she walked in.
“You’d better have brought me a cappuccino!”
Anahera smiled and walked into the living room to find Josie sitting on a sofa, folding curtains of happy yellow with white daisies printed on them. Her breath stuck in her chest. “Where—” She took a desperate sip of coffee to wet her bone-dry throat. “Where did you get those?”
“I saved them for you.” Josie’s smile was uncertain. “I’m sorry. Was that the wrong thing to do? I was worried they’d get moldy and damaged in the cabin after you left.”
Heart thundering, Anahera put the coffees on the small wooden table in front of Josie. “I thought they were gone,” she whispered, taking one of the crisply laundered and ironed curtains in her hands.
Josie touched her fingers to Anahera’s shoulder. “Your mum spent so much time making these. I couldn’t bear to have them just fade away.”
A lump of rock in her throat, Anahera nodded. She’d left behind everything but the greenstone carving she wore on a thin braided cord under her black sweater, and the memories in her heart. She’d thought she was beyond the idea of needing objects to remember the woman she’d loved so much, and whose embrace she missed to this day, but these curtains sang to her in her mother’s voice. “On that little sewing machine of hers.”
“I still have that, too,” Josie whispered. “You can have it back.”
Anahera shook her head. “She would’ve wanted you to have it.” That was why Anahera had given the machine to her best friend. “I can’t sew. Not like her.” Putting her hand on Josie’s, she squeezed. “Thank you.”
Josie’s misty eyes scanned her face. “Are you going to see your dad?”
Steel in her spine, black ice in her heart. “No.” She’d made her decision at twenty-one and that was how it’d stay.
“He’s been sober for years.”
“That’s good. But it has nothing to do with me.”
And then they sat there, awash in memories of a woman with Anahera’s features but with silver in her hair and sadness in her eyes.
Interlude
She examined her face in the mirror, tried to see if it showed.
But no, she looked the same as always.
Frowning, she sat on the narrow single bed and leaned down to lace up her running shoes. They were good shoes, with stripes of orange down the sides. She loved running in them. Probably she shouldn’t have accepted such an expensive gift, but her previous shoes had been falling apart to the point that she’d been considering running in bare feet.
Nothing worse than bad shoes, to her mind.
Getting up, she shut her bedroom door before moving down the hallway as quietly as possible. But he heard. He always did. Wandering into the doorway of the living room, he scratched at the flaccid white of his belly and leered. “Going for a run?”
“Tell Auntie I’ll be back in about an hour.” She’d become expert at slipping past his grabbing hands and was at the front door before he could move his unwashed body anywhere near her. She couldn’t understand how her aunt allowed him to touch her, but then, Auntie had always had hang-ups about her weight.
Men like him took advantage of that. And of Auntie’s kindness.
She didn’t stretch by the house as she’d done before he moved in. She walked a little ways to a patch of green in front of an abandoned property that was falling down around itself. As she did her stretches, she let her mind roam. Which way should she run today? Through the lush green of the old trees and native ferns? Along the main road out of town? It tended to be pretty quiet at this time of the year. The worst she’d get was a toot or two from locals who recognized her.
Or should she run along the cliffs above the beach? Maybe the beach itself?
It was the light that decided her, such a glorious clarity to it, the fog and mist having burned off during the day. She’d have it for at least two more hours and Auntie wouldn’t worry if she was a little late getting home.
Route decided, she took off on a slow jog that built until she was flying over the landscape, her legs formed for this. Sometimes she thought about what it would be like to do this for a job, to become an athlete. However, then it wouldn’t be pure joy anymore. And she loved this too much to diminish the experience.
She ran.
Seeing a standing form in the distance long after she’d hit her stride, she almost stumbled. Not many people in Golden Cove ran regularly and the ones that did tended to favor other routes. And this person was standing motionless, wasn’t even in running or walking clothes. Her feet took her closer and closer, until she recognized that profile, those eyes, that mouth.
“Oh,” she said, coming to a stop, startled and wondering if this was a sign. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
9
Will was sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the letter he’d just received from the police commissioner, when his phone rang. He didn’t hesitate to pick it up, the number one he recognized. “Matilda,” he said, “do you need help?”
On meeting Matilda Tutaia, you’d never think she’d put up with a man raising his hands to her, but Will had been called to the house twice already, both times to kick out her unemployed boyfriend until he calmed the fuck down.
Too bad she always took the asshole back.
“It’s Miriama.” Matilda’s voice was pitched noticeably higher than normal. “She went out for a run before dinner and she hasn’t come back home even though she knew I was cooking her favorite tonight. She told Steve she’d only be gone an hour. It’s been four.”
Will was already on his feet. The most likely explanation was that Miriama had hooked up with friends and forgotten to call Matilda . . . but that didn’t fit with the relationship he’d seen between the two women. Miriama was respectful toward her aunt. “Do you know which way she ran?” The young woman could’ve had an accident, might be lying on an isolated track waiting for someone to find her.
“I’m going to ask Steve.”
“Wait, I’ll do it when I get there.” The asshole was scared of Will, wouldn’t lie. “I’m on my way.” Hanging up before Matilda could reply, he grabbed his keys.
He reached their house in under seven minutes. Matilda hovered on the front lawn, a woman with short dark hair and weight that had crept on over the years. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a large pink T-shirt printed with fund-raising information for a long-ago charity gala, she was scanning the street with desperate eyes. “I know Steve’s got his problems,” she said when Will reached her, “but he wouldn’t hurt my Miri.”
Will thought of how he’d caught Steve looking at Miriama more than once, a look that said he was weighing up his chances. But Matilda had blinders on when it came to her boyfriend. “I just want to make sure I get all the information I need,” he said. “Have you called around to her friends?”
“First thing I did after trying her phone and getting that automatic ‘out of range or turned off’ message. I thought she must’ve gone in for a cuppa after her run and got carried away with the talking. She does that, you know. And people like her being around, so she’s always being invited to visit.”
“Who saw her last?”
“Tania, out toward the coastal road. Says Miriama waved to her as she ran by around a quarter to six. No one else saw her after that.”
Will touched one hand to Matilda’s shoulder. “Let’s go talk to Steve.”
Inside, Steve was where Will had expected him to be—on the dark brown armchair that was sagging in the middle and boasted ciga
rette burns on the arms; the man’s eyes were on the television screen and he had a beer in his hand. He laughed at something onscreen, only to say, “Fuck off, you old bitch!” when Matilda moved to block his view.
“I’d rather you turn off the television,” Will said.
Freezing at his voice, Steve looked up. “Hey, I never done nothing.”
Since Steve appeared to have lost control of his limbs, Will reached over, picked up the remote, and switched off the television himself. “Now,” he said to the other man, “tell me what happened.”
Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Nothing happened! The girl went out for a run like she does all the time, and she was wearing her black running tights with the pink sides and that tight orange top, and those shoes she can’t afford—when you find her, you should ask her how she bought those.”
“Steve!” Matilda’s voice was harder than Will had ever heard it. “I swear to God, if anything’s happened to Miri and you know it, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Steve’s eyebrows drew together, the shadows under his eyes bruise-colored splotches against his pallid skin. “I was watching my shows until you got home at ten past six. It’s not like I can run after her.”
“What did she tell you before she left?” Will asked, because if Steve had been here at 6:10 and Tania Meikle had seen Miriama at 5:45, it was highly unlikely he was lying about not having done anything to Miriama. The man didn’t drive and was about as fast as a snail with a limp. No way could he have made it to anywhere near the Meikle house.
“Just that she’d be back in an hour and that I was to tell Matilda.” A sulky look at the woman he was supposed to love. “I did, didn’t I? Just like your precious Miri ordered.”
“Aside from the shoes and clothes you’ve described, was she wearing anything else? Jewelry?”