“Good.” Will wondered at his chances of getting a fire investigator out here. With no fatalities and the only casualty an old cabin with what would be considered suspect wiring, it was probably highly -unlikely—-but Will had been on the force a long time. He’d see if he could call in another favor.

“You were burned in a fire.” Anahera’s back stayed pressed against his chest, her eyes on the cabin. “This must remind you of it.”

Will’s instincts recoiled against the memories, but he shook his head. “No, because you weren’t inside.” He could’ve stopped at that, but he gave her the whole ugly truth. “The rapist husband killed his wife and child by setting their supposed safe house on fire.”

“You tried to save them.”

“The bastard had doused the entire place in kerosene. It went up like paper. Part of a wall fell on me.” Breaking nothing, just searing his skin and trapping him in place until smoke inhalation took him under.

He’d survived because the firefighters he’d called before going into the house had hauled him out. “The pathologist later confirmed both bodies were found in their beds. I like to imagine they never woke, were never afraid, that the smoke got them before the flames.” But he’d never know for sure.

Sometimes, he had nightmares where he imagined -three--year--old Alfie screaming and screaming as his flesh melted off.

Anahera shifted to his side, then slipped her arm around his waist, hugging him tight. “Then,” she said, “using fire to get at you isn’t a coincidence, is it?”

Yes, it was cunning and vicious both. “I want to point the finger at Kyle. He’s vindictive enough to do something like -this—-but he isn’t the only person I’ve pissed off recently.” Just because Kyle Baker was a psychopath didn’t mean he was also a firestarter.

“What about Vincent?”

“He strikes me as too controlled.” Everything and everyone in its place, including his wife and his mistress. Both marionettes Vincent had manipu-lated to get them to dance to his tune.

“I suppose you’re right.” Anahera didn’t look away from the cabin, but her tone said she was thinking of something else. “It’s -just… I remember, when we were teenagers, it was always Vincent who started the bonfires. He was just so good at it. We used to joke that he must have a Boy Scout badge for starting fires.”

The hairs prickled on the back of Will’s neck. “Did he ever start fires outside of the bonfires?”

“Not that I know of,” Anahera admitted. “We were all brought up to be very careful with fire, what with the risk of forest fires in summer. The only place we felt safe to have a bonfire was on the beach. And Nikau, Daniel, even me, we were all into it just as much as Vincent.”

Her fingers clenched on the back of his jacket. “Truth is, I don’t really have any reason to suspect Vincent. It’s just that I don’t like him much now that I’ve spoken to Jemima.”

People began to rustle behind them as the flames started to stutter and die one by one.

The spectacle was over.

“I get the feeling he went shopping for a wife,” Anahera added. “Jemima has the right pedigree, the right kind of beauty, even the right kind of -personality—-she’s never going to leave Vincent, no matter what he does.”

“Do you think she’d assist him if he decided to get rid of an inconvenient woman?” -Because—-and assuming the baby had been Vincent’-s—-that was what Miriama would’ve become in his eyes the instant she fell pregnant.

“I don’t know, but if he did it and Jemima knows, she won’t tell. She loves him too much to ever turn him in.”

“It could work the other way, too,” Will said softly. “Jemima getting rid of the competition.”

Sucking in a breath, Anahera said, “I get the feeling she’s too -passive… but Jemima also loves Vincent. Desperately.”

Her words hung in a disturbing pocket of silence.

Up ahead, the firefighters were smothering the last embers. It helped that the cabin had been wet from the rain, and though it had blazed hotly for a short period, there hadn’t been enough fuel for it to keep going once the place was drenched with firefighting foam. Now it sat there, a crumbled ruin frothing with white.

57

Anahera didn’t sleep that night and, come dawn, she left Will’s bed without waking him. It had taken painstaking care, but he needed his sleep after the long drive the previous day and the hours he’d spent at the site where the cabin had once -stood—-writing everything up and making calls that had woken more than one person.

One of those calls had led eventually to a fire investigator. The other man had agreed to come to Golden Cove today, see if he could confirm their suspicions of arson.

Anahera needed to say -good--bye to her home first, needed to say -good--bye to her mother.

Throat thick and body reclad in the same clothes she’d worn the day before, she pulled on her boots and walked out of the house. She made no attempt to take the police -SUV—-a walk would do her good. Fog rolled around her ankles and a cool morning wind whispered across her cheeks as she strode along the road heading to the beach.

The small stops she made left her hand wet and color in her grasp.