Jemima spoke again, both slender hands back around her mug. “I love this part of the country, but Vincent and I are away so often that I haven’t had a chance to really nest here, if you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do.” She’d loved Edward, and so she’d tried to love London, too. Just as she’d tried not to miss the water that crashed so hard against the rocks that it sent up a white spray, the grit of sand between her toes, and the green, the endless dark green that could never be tamed.

All things she’d wanted to escape as a girl.

All things she’d ached for desperately when surrounded by red -double--decker buses and stately museums, designer shops and theaters that glittered, the civility of it threaded by a constant buzz of humanity.

“You and Vincent have two kids, right?” she said. “I’m sorry, I forgot their names.”

This time, Jemima’s smile lit up her entire face. “Jasper and Chloe. My little cheeky monsters. One’s four and the other’s three. They’re with their nanny now, a wonderful older lady who used to look after Vincent when he was young.”

That there was one reason Jemima might’ve had trouble fitting into Golden Cove. Women here generally didn’t get the opportunity to have nannies or to fly around the country and the world. Sometimes, even the nicest people could give in to the -green--eyed monster of jealousy. Especially when Jemima had married one of the few bachelors in town who offered a ticket out of poverty or a humdrum -small--town experience.

“Jemima.” Vincent’s hand on his wife’s lower back, his face worn. “Do you want to get back? Kyle’s about to leave so you can catch a ride with him again. I might stay a little longer.”

Jemima nodded. “The kids will be missing me.” Leaning in, she kissed Vincent on the cheek, the fingers of one hand rising to touch his jaw. “Don’t stay out too long, okay? You’ve done everything you can. No one could ask for more.”

As Vincent and Jemima walked away after Jemima said a warm -good--bye, Anahera wondered if Vincent saw Golden Cove as his responsibility. It wasn’t out of the realm of -possibility—-the Bakers had always been big on public service. While Golden Cove didn’t have a mayor, if it did, it was probably a Baker who would’ve filled that role. And now Vincent was beating himself up because Miriama had disappeared on his watch.

“Trust Vincent to take this on his shoulders,” she said to Nikau when he came to join her.

The man who’d once been her friend, and who she thought might still be, stared after the departing couple. “Vincent always seems so straightforward, doesn’t he?” He folded his arms, his shirt a checked blue; he’d hung up his wet outdoor jacket by the door.

“Do you have any reason to think he isn’t?”

Nikau shrugged. “He never talks about her, you -know—-the wife, I mean. But all the times I’ve met her, she seems nice enough. A little posh, but you expect that with someone Vincent would hook up with. He never brings her to any of the town events, either. It’s weird when you think about the parties and things he takes her to all across the country.”

Someone hailed Nikau just then and he walked off to talk to a grizzled older man with blue prison tattoos across his knuckles. His words, however, stuck with Anahera. Jemima didn’t seem the type of person who thought she was too good to attend Golden Cove events. Perhaps her absence was a case of jealousy of another kind. For Vincent, Golden Cove was his home. Maybe he couldn’t share it even with the woman he loved.

And Anahera was making up answers out of thin air. For all she knew, Jemima could keep up the appearance of enjoying -small--town life for a short period, but had no particular desire to become part of the fabric of Golden Cove.

Every couple had their secrets and their polite lies.

24

After leaving Kyle, Will had gone back to talk to Steve. He’d wanted to squeeze Matilda’s live--in boyfriend while Matilda wasn’t around. Men like Steve had a way of posturing and lying in front of the female sex, as if the behavior would prove their status as an alpha male.

But Steve stuck to his -story—-and he wasn’t smart enough to lie that well. Those of Steve’s type, when they killed, weren’t clever about it. They were violent and brutal and caught up in the heat of the moment. Had the searchers found Miriama’s body beaten and strangled somewhere nearby, Will would’ve come down hard on Steve as a primary suspect, but with Miriama missing and Steve simply not having had the time to get to her, he had to accept that the other man was telling the truth.

“She wasn’t ever going to let me touch her,” Steve muttered sourly, just as Will’s phone vibrated with a message.

“Who? Matilda?” Will had remained standing while Steve sat in the dark brown couch that swallowed him up. The other man was wearing a greasy and -sweat--stained white tank, gray chest hairs sticking out from over the top of it, while he’d pomaded back his scraggly -once--blond hair as if he was reliving the seventies.

“Matilda, too,” was the answer. “I wasn’t gonna force her precious Miriama or nothing,” Steve added piously, “but I’m a man. I had to try my chances in case she had an itch she felt like scratching.”

Will fought the urge to kick Steve in the balls. The image of the asshole crumpled whimpering on the floor was a particularly compelling one. But he checked his phone instead, giving Steve more time to stew.