It was a wonder they’d all liked him as much as they had. But Vincent had a way about ­him—­he was so quietly easygoing that he could fit into almost any environment and, as a friend, he was reliable. Back when they were eleven, before he was sent to boarding school, he’d once lent Anahera a copy of his completed math homework, after a night when she simply hadn’t been able to concentrate because her parents were screaming at each other.

She’d gone out to sit on the beach in an effort to find focus, but it turned out she’d brought the screaming with her, her head full of violence. In the end, she’d settled in a spot on the cliffs from where she could watch the waves come in and stayed there till dawn. Maybe Miriama’d had one of those days, too; maybe she was just sitting somewhere, waiting for dawn to come.

“Let me have a look at that list of search areas,” the cop said to Matilda. After scanning it, he began to hand out more assignments, covering ­little-­used tracks and areas of the town that Nikau had marked as unassigned. “If I’ve given any of you an area you’re unfamiliar with, speak up now. It’s no good to Miriama if you’re stumbling around.”

Two groups spoke up, ended up swapping tasks.

“You’re the only person without a partner except for me,” he said to Anahera, then subtly angled his head in the direction of the doorway.

She went with him after catching the quick flick of his gaze toward where Matilda was speaking to another searcher. The cop wanted them out of earshot of the older woman. “What?” she said quietly once they’d moved.

“I have to make a call, then I’m going to check out that unofficial dumpsite outside of town. You happy to come along?”

Anahera’s stomach clenched, but she nodded. “I’m surprised the dump’s still there,” she said after the two of them were back in his SUV. “I know when I left, the town busybodies were up in arms about it for the millionth time.” As an adult, she could see their point; that particular area was an ugly blight on an otherwise striking landscape.

So, for that matter, was Nikau’s house, which they passed on the way out of town. What the hell was he up to?

“It pisses off his ex’s new husband,” the cop said quietly, even though she hadn’t spoken aloud. “The new husband owns four plots around Nik’s place that he’s trying to sell.”

Anahera went motionless; she’d have to be careful around this man. She’d left her past behind in London and didn’t intend for it to follow her here. That part of her life was done and would stay in the hole in which she’d buried it, the same hole that held Edward’s lifeless body.

13

“Nikau did always know how to hold a grudge.” Anahera had once accidentally kicked over his sandcastle when they were five or six. He hadn’t forgiven her for two months.

“As for the dump,” the cop added, “the business council hired a waste removal company to clean it up a few years back, but people apparently took that as an invitation to dump even more rubbish. Now the council’s trying to get in touch with the owner of the land with the aim of buying it so the town can do something with it that’ll stop the dumping for good.”

Anahera shook her head. “Affordability aside, the land’s too far out to be useful for any kind of a public building.” Some Golden Cove residents might live deep in the darkness of the trees, but all essential services were centralized. It was the only way such a small and remote settlement could work.

“There’s talk of establishing a greenhouse.” The cop drove through the night with an unsmiling concentration that told her he missed nothing. “Area already has a few small organic growers who are starting to do well, and they’ve indicated an interest in possibly helping to finance the purchase.”

The side of Anahera’s face burned, as if she’d taken a brutal backhand to the cheek. When had that happened? Organic produce from Golden Cove? But the reality was, she’d been away a long time. Time didn’t stand still even in the Cove. And Josie couldn’t tell her everything. “Are they locals?” she asked. “The organic growers?”

“One of them ­is—­Susan Perdue.”

Anahera vaguely remembered Susan; born in a different generation, the other woman had already been a mother of two by the time Anahera left town. “Her kids must be teenagers by now.”

“Fourteen and sixteen.”

Spotting an unexpected light through the trees by the side of the road, Anahera leaned forward. “Isn’t that the old Baxter place?”

“Shane Hennessey’s father inherited it, but he wanted nothing to do with it. Shane’s got it now.”

“Right, I remember. Josie mentioned it when he first moved in.”

Instead of driving past, the cop turned into the driveway of what Anahera remembered as a ramshackle property surrounded by out-­of-­control grass.

“Shane doesn’t always answer his phone. Doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working.”

Though the cop’s voice held no judgment, Anahera detected what she thought was a note of cynicism underneath. Curious about the new owner, she stepped out of the vehicle after Will brought it to a stop. The old place had definitely been spruced up and was unexpectedly charming now, complete with white paint and leadlight windows instead of the broken and gaping holes of her childhood.

The house also featured a new porch stocked with a number of whitewashed rocking chairs. Nubile young women occupied two of those chairs.

“Oh, hello,” one said in a cheerful way. “Shane’s writing, so he can’t see you right now. But we’d be happy to visit.”

“Interrupt him,” the cop said in such a flat tone that the cheerful girl blanched. “This is important.”

The girls looked at one another at this departure from the script.

When neither made a move to enter the house, Will did so himself. Staying outside, Anahera took in the girls in their short shorts and flannel shirts. One was blonde and perky, the other dark eyed and sensuous with a stud in her eyebrow, but they both had the ­dewy-­eyed look of creatures who hadn’t yet had the shine rubbed off them. Nineteen, twenty at the most. “You’re Shane’s students?”

The blonde nodded, while the ­dark-­eyed one gave Anahera an assessing ­look—­as if checking out the competition. That one was tough and far more likely to survive life than the blonde bunny. Unless, of course, the bunny was fortunate enough to find someone who wanted to preserve her ­wide-­eyed naïveté.

“We’re so lucky.” The bunny actually pressed her hands together in delight. “Shane is one of the most ­well-­known novelists in the world and we get to have a residence with him.” Joy sparking off every word. “My book’s taking shape in ways I could’ve never imagined.”

A ­thirty-­something man followed Will out onto the porch before Anahera could respond. All messed-­up black hair and stubble along his jaw, Shane Hennessey was the epitome of the suffering artist. He had soft full lips, flawless skin the color of cream, a height two or three inches under the cop’s, and a build that said there was muscle beneath his ragged jeans and black ­shirt—­a shirt he wore with the sleeves shoved carelessly up to his elbows. Only it wasn’t careless. He was a man who knew he was ­good-­looking and who took full advantage of it.