“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 na?veté.

“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.

Edward had been like that, though it had taken her far too long to see the truth.

“I’m sorry, Will,” the suffering artist said in an Irish accent so beautiful it couldn’t be real, even as his eyes scanned Anahera then came back for a second look; obviously she’d fulfilled a list of basic prerequisites and deserved closer inspection. “I’ve been consumed by my characters since -lunch—-the girls can tell you. I wouldn’t know if a flying pig went past, much less some local girl.”

Anahera saw Will’s face tense, his shoulders bunch. “Let’s go,” she said to him before he punched the pretentious asshole. “We have to check the other places.”

A curt nod, but he wasn’t done. “Did either of you see Miriama run past here today?” he asked the two groupies.

The girls shook their heads. Then they looked as one toward Shane Hennessey, as if waiting for him to tell them what to do next.

Anahera’s skin prickled.

She was glad to get out of there. “Is it always like that?” she asked after they’d pulled out of the drive and were back on their way to the dump. “Him with a harem?”

“I have it on good authority that the people who win Shane’s residencies are always young, female, and pretty. Such a strange coincidence.”

Anahera snorted. “You have a gift for understatement, cop.”

He didn’t reply, the lights of his SUV cutting through the inky blackness in front of them as he slowed down just before the ragged dirt track that led to the cleared but never developed patch of land that had become a dumping ground.