Will looked around the room, taking in the cleanly swept surfaces, the old wooden table that stood neatly in one corner, two rickety chairs tucked in underneath. There was no bed, which meant there had to be more to this place than met the eye. “You have another room?”

Anahera used her thumb to point over her shoulder. “Facilities down that way,” she said, misunderstanding the reason for his question. “I don’t have anything for you to change into.”

“I’ll dry out.” To make that go faster, he took off the gray shirt he was wearing over a white T--shirt and, dragging one of the chairs close to the fireplace, hung the shirt on the back. While his jeans would no doubt remain heavily damp until he made it home, his lightweight tee should dry quickly enough.

Deciding he needed to wash his hands, he walked down the small hallway hidden behind the kitchen area and found himself facing the partially closed door to another room. Prior to that and on the right were the toilet and shower. On the left was the open door to an empty room that had probably been Anahera’s mother’s bedroom.

He was more interested in the other bedroom. It boasted a bed, from what he could see, and not much else. And Anahera isn’t a suspect, he reminded himself when his brain began to scan automatically for signs of trouble. He supposed that, technically, she was as viable a suspect as anyone in Golden Cove, but she had no motive that he could see. She’d returned only days earlier and he was beginning to get the feeling that whatever had happened to Miriama, it had to do with the -town—-and with secrets.

28

Stepping into the bathroom, he washed off the traces of black grit that had sunk into the lifelines on his palms, probably while pushing Vincent’s sedan off the road.

When he examined his face in the cracked mirror above the sink afterward, the man who looked back at him had a haggard edge to him, dark stubble having appeared on his jaw and his cheeks still a little sunken. “You’ll never be a poster boy, Will.”

The scent of coffee was warm in the air when he returned to the living room.

“Have you eaten?” Anahera asked from where she stood at the compact kitchen counter that ran along the back wall.

Will shook his head. “I’ll grab toast when I get back home. We should talk over what you heard tonight at the volunteer meeting.” Will didn’t know Anahera, but he’d run her the day she arrived; it was only prudent to find out if the town’s new resident had a record. The last time a prodigal had returned to Golden Cove, he’d turned out to be a drug dealer who hadn’t quite left his old life behind.

He’d abandoned his plans to set up shop in town after Will made it clear he’d do everything in his power to throw the other man in prison.

Anahera, by contrast, had no criminal record.

What she did have was a glittering career as a classical musician. Yet there was no sign of music in this room. Not even a small radio.

Of course, it was obvious most of Anahera’s belongings hadn’t yet arrived. She’d also have taken everything important with her when she said -good--bye to the Cove; no point leaving it here to be stolen, vandalized, or impacted by the elements.

“You can have some of this pasta,” she said, stirring in the sauce. “The sauce is from a packet, but it’s hot and it’ll fill you up. And I won’t have to eat leftovers for three days in a row. I’m so used to cooking -for—-” She cut herself off with the suddenness of a woman who’d slammed up hard against an emotional wall.

Will didn’t need her to finish her sentence. He knew she’d buried her husband seven months ago. “Thanks,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed her abrupt silence. “I never say no to pasta.”

“I’m having a glass of red with it.” She lifted a plain drinking glass filled about a third of the way up. “I’d offer you the same in my incredibly elegant stemware, but I’m thinking that you’re probably still on duty.”

“Not officially.” Will moved to lean his hip against the counter on the other side of the portable gas stovetop she was using to cook the pasta. A lot of the locals owned one of those; most used them for camping or hunting trips. Probably a good idea for Anahera to stick to that until she could have all the wiring in the cabin checked out.

“But,” he added, “in a place like this, where I’m the only police officer around, I’m never really off duty.” Will liked it that way. It gave him less time to think, less time to relive the past, less time to apologize to the small ghost who never seemed to hear him.

Anahera took a sip of her wine before saying, “I made coffee, too. Mugs on your right.”

Taking hold of a thick green mug from the grouping of four mismatched ones on the counter, Will picked up the -old--fashioned and heavy metal teakettle she’d used to keep the coffee hot. “Something like this,” he said, lifting up the teakettle, “it’d probably set you back two hundred dollars in one of the designer stores in the big cities.”

Anahera laughed, the emotion reaching the darkness of her eyes. “You’re right. But that particular kettle has been in my family for the past fifty years or so.”

“They don’t make them like they used to.” Will put the kettle back down on the large wooden coaster beside the -stovetop—-that coaster looked like an offcut from a plank, but it did the job.