“I will.” Anahera picked up the fresh tray of coffees, drifted back into the crowd to make sure everyone had a mug. And she listened as she’d told Will she’d do.

Most people were despondent.

“I even went -off--track,” one of the -gray--bearded locals was saying. “Did the parts I knew you buggers might not be able to. Didn’t find no sign of her.”

Kyle Baker, his hair wet, murmured, “Do you think the water took her?” He directed the soft, worried question at Nikau.

Anahera was surprised. Not by the -question—-everyone was wondering if the sea had taken Miriama, if she’d slipped and fallen in the wrong place and been swept out without a trace. No, what surprised her was Kyle’s deferential tone.

Last time she’d seen Kyle Baker, he’d been a boy of eleven, but he’d been a boy well aware of his “station in life,” as one of Edward’s more pompous friends had used to say. A -private--school boarder during the week, he’d come home to Golden Cove for the weekends. Where he’d made sure the local children knew he had the best of -everything—-the best music player, the best shoes, the best education.

Anahera had thought him an obnoxious prat.

From what she could recall, Nikau had shared her opinion. Today, however, he gave the younger male a tight smile. “Miriama’s too respectful of the ocean to get so close to the water.”

“Yeah, yeah, she is,” Kyle said, his relief open.

Eight years was a long time. Maybe Kyle had grown out of his prat nature.

“What about those hikers from back when we were kids?” Tom said, his beard glittering with droplets of rainwater and his callused fingers closing gratefully over the last mug on Anahera’s tray. “Josie was saying last night how it was strange, so many women going missing in the bush near here.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Kyle said. “It was three women, right?”

Nikau nodded. “Pretty young women.” Unspoken were the words “just like Miriama.”

After drinking down half the mug of coffee, Tom said, “We should tell the cop.”

“I’m pretty sure Will already knows.” Dark clouds rumbled across Nikau’s face. “You realize what it would mean if Miriama’s disappearance is connected to the missing women?”

Puzzled expressions all around.

Anahera, unblinded by fresh bonds and able to look at things as an insider who’d turned outsider for a while, said, “It would have to be one of us. A stranger who came back fifteen years apart would’ve been -noticed—-and there are no strangers in town.”

Tom, -Kyle—-everyone but -Nik—-all stared at her before Tom swore under his breath.

“This has nothing to do with those lost hikers.” Vincent’s voice. He’d come to stand beside his taller younger brother. “Golden Cove has its problems, but a serial murderer?” A hard shake of his head. “Even the police back then said it was just bad luck and coincidence.” His tone was calm, practical. “We’re not kids making up scary stories now, and Miriama is alive, probably hurt. I, for one, am going to keep looking.”

Several heads nodded at his firm statement, but Anahera caught the bitter truth in too many -eyes—-most people thought Miriama was gone, never to be found.

As she began to move on, Kyle stepped out of the group and toward her. “It feels weird to say this now”—-an uncomfortable teenage -shrug—-“but welcome back to the Cove, Ana.”

“Thank you, Kyle.” Leaving him with a small smile, she headed back to the table that held the large coffee urn.

A slender woman stood nearby: blonde, with lovely green eyes, she had the kind of face and bearing that shouted private schooling and wealth. Or maybe it was her waterproof jacket. Though that, in itself, wasn’t unusual in this crowd. All the -old--timers as well as many of the younger crew had brought along waterproof gear when they saw the clouds on the horizon.

What made the blonde stand out was that her waterproof gear likely cost something like five -times—-no, that was being -conservative—-it was probably more like ten times the price of what everyone else was wearing.

She also wore a black knit cap, which had survived being soaked through, so she’d been smart enough to pull the hood of her jacket over it while outside. Her facial bones were the kind that would age beautifully. But she wasn’t beautiful, this woman. She -was… elegant. That was when it clicked, the woman’s identity.

Jemima Baker, Vincent’s wife.

Anahera had seen her in the photos Vincent had posted on his social media page. In those photos, however, Jemima was always dressed to the nines and out at some charity gala or other -black--tie event. Her hair was usually a sleek blonde sheet, glossy and without a strand out of place, her makeup flawless.

In the last image Anahera could remember seeing, the other woman had worn a black sheath dress, a string of pearls around her neck. In her hand had been a little clutch with the double C logo that defined Chanel.

No wonder Anahera hadn’t immediately recognized her; today, despite her expensive gear, Jemima Baker stood as damp and bedraggled as everyone else. On her feet were worn--in hiking boots suitable for this climate and area, and the backs of her hands bore fresh scratches, as if she’d pushed through the dense growth looking for Miriama.