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.”

It began to slide back almost at once.

Waiting only until it was open just far enough, Anahera slipped through, then told Jemima to close it.

Four huge black dogs boiled out of the trees at that moment, snarling and barking and heading straight for her Jeep.

64

“Jesus, Jemima.”

“Drive,” the other woman ordered. “They’ll go for the people at the gate. Matthew assured me they know not to cross that barrier.”

Anahera wasn’t so certain of that, but she kept on driving as, behind her, the gate slid shut again. Barely in time. One of the dogs slammed into it, its jaws wide open. No wonder Jemima was keeping her kids indoors.

Parking her Jeep right by the front door of the glass and timber guesthouse, Anahera opened her own door with care. She couldn’t hear the dogs, but she still moved as fast as humanly possible to grab the drinks and cakes. Jemima was waiting for her in the doorway, sea green eyes jaggedly brilliant in a face as pale as porcelain.

“Here, I’ll take those,” she said with a graciousness that seemed habitual.

“Those dogs, Jem.” Anahera shut the door behind herself, then took the drinks from Jemima. “I can see they’re doing a good job, but they’re vicious.”

“Matthew’s going to pick them up tomorrow,” Jemima told her, leading them into a large living area made warm and snug by the crackling fire in the hearth.

Her face changed as she entered, her expression brighter and happier. “Sweethearts, look what my friend Anahera’s brought! Treats!”

The two children jumped up from where they were playing with Lego bricks on the floor. Fidgeting, their small faces aglow, they nonetheless remembered to say, “Thank you!” to Anahera before they reached out to pick a cupcake each from the box their mother held open.

“I’m going to put your drinks here,” Jemima told the children, placing the hot chocolates on a coffee table by the play area. “You both know you have to sit at this table to eat and drink.”

Two happy nods, faces already smooshed with pink and purple frosting.

Putting the extra cakes on the dining table to the far right of the -open--plan space, Anahera following suit with their coffees, Jemima smiled at her children and it was incredible, the fierce power with which she held back her sadness and grief in their presence. “If I leave these cakes near them, they won’t be able to resist, and their little tummies can only hold so much.”

Anahera took off her anorak and hung it on the back of the chair before taking a seat across from Jemima. “They’re sweet kids.” Well raised rather than polite robots too scared to step a foot out of line. Currently, they were giggling as they painted mustaches onto each other’s upper lips with the frosting from their cupcakes.

Jemima’s face crumpled for a second before she slapped the cheerful mask back on. “I don’t know what this will do to them,” she said in a low tone that wouldn’t reach Jasper and Chloe. “To grow up being known as the children of a serial killer?” Her anguish was a raw wound. “Daniel’s coming back into the country tomorrow to deal with some urgent business matters. He said he’ll fly us out of here. At least I can take my babies away from the center of it all.”