“Let’s try something else.” Opening up a tab on her browser, Anahera put Jemima Baker’s name into the search engine.

The results came up quickly.

At the very top was a site that showcased the charities Jemima supported. Each charity had a separate page with details about its work and instructions on how to donate. The images of Jemima were airbrushed and touched up, her makeup flawless. No photos of her laughing or interacting with the staff at the charities, not even a stereotypical shot of her doling out soup to the homeless.

“Odd she’s not milking her charity work more for political gain,” Anahera murmured, “but she might just be a private person who prefers the world have a particular impression of her.” Anahera herself was the queen of masks and illusions.

“Look at the name of the company that designed the website.” Will pointed out the tiny script at the bottom of the first page that linked back to a company under Vincent’s umbrella. “It’s almost as if that’s all he sees her -as—-the perfect, beautiful wife. Not a fully rounded woman.”

Anahera turned in her seat so that she was facing Will. “What brought on this line of questioning?”

Walking over to retake his own seat, Will picked up his coffee to take a drink before answering. “The news will be all over town tomorrow anyway,” he began. “That accident I mentioned? The reason I was drenched?”

Anahera nodded.

“Vincent drove his car into a ditch.”

“My God. Is -he—-”

“He’s fine. A cut on the head, but it doesn’t look serious. He told me he skidded because of the rain, but I don’t think that’s true. I think he was distracted and not paying attention.”

Anahera sucked in a breath, a sudden knot in her gut. “At the fire station, he was adamant that the search continue. He seems very passionate about finding Miriama alive.”

“ ‘Passionate’ is the appropriate word.” Will shoved back his hair with one hand. “He’s admitted to having a crush on Miriama. You know him better than I -do—-do you think he’d cheat on his wife?”

She did know Vincent. He was one of her oldest friends. And this cop was asking her to betray him.

Getting up, she went to check the fire. It crackled and sparked in direct contrast to the heavy drumming of rain on the cabin’s tin roof, the howling wind held barely at bay. “As a child,” she found herself saying after getting up from her crouch, “I always loved storms. The sounds, the smell of ozone in the air, how my mother would sleep over with me so I wouldn’t be scared.”

Anahera stared down at the -orange--red glow of the flames. “I wasn’t scared, but I never told her because I liked it so much when she stayed with me.” Her mother’s body had been a warm bulk, one that meant love and affection and safety.

“I used to like storms, -too—-before I became a cop,” Will said from his seat at the table. “You’d be surprised how stupid people get during this kind of weather. Worst is when cabin fever sets in.”

“Do people hurt each other more?” Her father had punched her mother so often that Anahera had seen no difference during storms.

“Yes. And it’s mostly people who know each other and say they love one another.”

The words fell in between them like unexploded grenades. She saw realization dawn in his eyes a second later. He immediately shook his head. “That wasn’t a dig. Every cop I know hates domestic violence callouts. They have a tendency to go bad very quickly.”

Anahera turned her attention back to the fire, to the flames and the heat and the warmth that couldn’t reach the ice in her heart. “No need to tiptoe around the truth,” she said. “My father did beat my mother. Badly. Everyone in Golden Cove knows that.”

It was impossible to hide bruises when they went three deep.

“Nikau and Josie tell me he’s turned over a new leaf, goes to AA meetings every month. But that doesn’t change the past, does it? It doesn’t disappear my mother’s black eyes and broken bones and splintered spirit. It doesn’t bring her back.”

Anahera didn’t believe in forgiveness, not for that crime. Whether or not Jason Rawiri had physically pushed her off that ladder, sociable Haeata had only lived in this cabin far from her friends because she owned nothing else. Jason had taken it all, every cent she’d ever earned. Only Anahera’s grandparents’ cabin remained. A safe place for Haeata to move with her daughter, but not one she could’ve sold for any real gain. As it was, even with Anahera contributing through -part--time jobs, they’d barely managed the outgoings.

If Haeata had had the money to rent in town, a neighbor would’ve noticed she wasn’t around outside pottering away. Someone would’ve checked on her.

And Anahera’s mother wouldn’t have bled to death cold and alone.

“I can’t answer your question about Vincent’s loyalty to his wife,” she said into the heavy silence. “The boy I knew was the straightest arrow in our group. But those pictures he puts up of Jemima, like she’s a shiny trophy and not a real -person… that’s not the Vincent I know.”

Her mind kept gnawing on the whole thing. What if it wasn’t just bragging about a trophy or showing off? What if he wanted to shape his wife’s image to keep others at a distance from her?