The small bell above the door tinkled.

Anahera turned to see Dominic de Souza; she recognized him only because Matilda had shown her a photo of Miriama with “her doctor boyfriend.” There’d been so much pride in Matilda at that instant, her -tear--swollen eyes momentarily suffused with happiness.

There was nothing of happiness in Dominic de Souza.

Grief had ravaged his face, creating new grooves in his skin, and his hair was as wild as his eyes behind the clear lenses of his glasses, but he had on a fresh white shirt over a pair of black pants. “I’ve got patients to see,” he said without a greeting. “I’m the only doctor in town.”

Pushing herself up by using the table as a brace, Josie walked over to take Dominic’s hands. “I’ll make you your usual,” she said softly. “If you need anything else, you just call from the clinic.”

Anahera rose and began to put on her anorak while Josie went around to make the coffee. The doctor just stood there, his face more than a little vacant. Anahera didn’t know if he should be treating patients today, but maybe being in the surgery would wake him up. And, unfortunately, he was right: he was the only medical help around unless you were prepared to drive fifty minutes to an hour -south—-and that was assuming clear roads with no slips from the storm.

In a local emergency, Dominic de Souza was the only choice.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay treating patients?” she asked, careful to keep her voice nonjudgmental.

Blinking, he turned to stare at her. Intelligence sparked in the pale bloodshot brown of his eyes, his shoulders squaring. “I’m a good doctor,” he bit out.

Anahera couldn’t fault him for his edgy reaction to a complete stranger questioning his competence. She’d probably lose her shit, too, were their positions reversed. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Josie, I’ve put the money for my cappuccino on the table.” She left before her friend could tell her to take her money with -her—-the way Josie looked after everyone, it was a wonder she was turning any kind of a profit.

Having walked into town, Anahera began to head toward the police station.

When a gleaming black sports car crawled up along the otherwise empty street littered with fallen leaves, dirty candy wrappers, and other -storm--borne debris, Anahera noticed it without paying it much mind. Not until it pulled to a stop a few meters ahead of her and the driver shut off the engine.

The door opened seconds later, a familiar man getting out.

34

Daniel May came straight toward her. “I thought that was you, Ana.”

“Daniel.” Anahera stopped, her hands in the pockets of the anorak. “How much is that car worth?” She recognized the -make—-Edward had owned a sedan because he was far too sensible to drive around London in a car worth the same as a house, but he’d always lusted after fast cars that were all about speed and elegance.

Before everything had gone wrong and they’d broken so deep the fracture could never be patched, Anahera used to tell him he should buy one on his fortieth birthday and to hell with anyone who thought he was hav-ing a midlife crisis. Instead, he’d gone out and gotten himself a mistress.

“It’s a Lamborghini, isn’t it? Did you get it the same time you grew a pony--tail?”

A bright white smile from the man who’d once been a boy on whom she’d had a crush. She’d been thirteen at the time, Daniel fifteen.

“Nice to know you aren’t going to give me the cold shoulder.” His sunglasses hid eyes she remembered as being unusually dark, but his tone was open -enough—-and cuttingly bitter. “I’m getting sick of it from everyone else.”

Anahera shrugged. “I guess people figure friends aren’t supposed to poach from friends.”

Expression cooling, Daniel slid his own hands into the pockets of his dark gray suit pants. His shirt was a vivid aqua, his watch a Patek Philippe Anahera vaguely recognized from a catalog the highly respected watch company had sent to Edward.

The watch was probably worth more than the Lamborghini.

It wasn’t a surprise that Daniel enjoyed fine watches. But it was something to note.

“It takes two to tango,” he said in response to her sally. “And Nikau wasn’t exactly interested in dancing with his wife. He was too puffed up with his own importance, always away at a conference or in ‘office hours’ with -nineteen--year--olds who thought he was a god. Not my fault if she decided to seek greener pastures.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.” Anahera wondered if Daniel still drew. He’d once given her a pen drawing of a kea, showing the -rabble--rousing native parrot in the midst of one of its favorite activities: destroying the rubber seal around a car’s window.

She could see no signs of that whimsical boy in this sharply dressed man.

“Like you said,” she added, “the entire mess involved three people, not just you.” She didn’t think Nikau had cheated on his wife as Daniel was implying; Nikau had always been obsessed with Keira, far too obsessed to play outside the marriage bed.

But, unlike Nikau, she wasn’t about to turn Daniel into a -black--hearted villain who’d lured Keira away. Whatever strange emptiness she had inside her, Keira was no one’s puppet. “Not that you’re exactly an innocent party, Dan. You made the decision to be with Keira while she was still married to another man.” Separated wasn’t the same as divorced. “You had to know what was coming.”