Hemi Henare was home.

Yellow light glowed in the windows of the modern three-level wood-and-glass structure that was his house. Either Tia Henare or one of their three adult children was already inside. The house didn’t appear as tall as it was because it had been built in a slight hollow—that positioning also gave the family even more privacy than the rest of the Cul-de-Sac.

But my father’s house was located on a small rise at the end of the street. Not elevated enough for anyone to comment on it—but enough that from my tree-shrouded aerie, I could see nearly all movement in the street—including some otherwise-secluded areas.

Such as the corner of the Henare family’s triple garage.

Hemi didn’t lower the electronic garage door after nosing in his car beside his wife’s sporty red roadster. Neither did I see the home’s lower front windows glow with the internal sensor light that meant he’d exited into the hallway. He was still in the car. Probably on a phone call or—I glanced at my watch—listening to the hourly news bulletin.

I moved before I’d consciously processed the decision. Cane in hand, I hobbled as fast as possible down the stairs, and out the door. My breath was coming in puffs, and the wet chill in the air reminded me I’d forgotten my jacket—but when I finally made it to the Henare place, I found I was in luck.

The garage door was still up.

Stepping onto their heavily tree-shadowed drive just as the streetlights came on against the falling night, I walked into the garage and around to the passenger-side door of the Mercedes. There was plenty of room even with both vehicles inside, and since Hemi hadn’t bothered to lock his car, I opened the passenger door and got in.

20

The radio was playing music, an old song that’d had Hemi smiling before I startled him.

Eyebrows snapping together, he said, “What’s the meaning of this, Aarav?”

As if I were still a student being called on the carpet in the principal’s office.

I held his angry brown gaze, his irises two or three shades lighter than the burnished brown of his skin. His thick and slightly wavy hair, in contrast, was a rich ebony. Of proud Māori descent, Hemi was heavily involved with the management of the local iwi, and his children were standard-bearers for Māori achievement.

Ariki was in the army and rising quickly up the ranks.

Mihirangi had just graduated law school.

Rima was currently in medical school.

Both women still lived with their parents.

Beautiful and curvy Tia was a devoted homemaker with extensive charity interests. She and my mother had hated each other for reasons I’d never understood—though I had my guesses. As for the family money, no high school principal made the kind of salary that would allow him to live in the Cul-de-Sac.

The money came from a multimillion-dollar building supplies business started by Tia’s grandfather that was still fully family-owned. Tia was one of three siblings and—per interviews given by their parents—each one had been given a ten percent shareholding in the company on their twenty-fifth birthday.

“We want to see what our tamariki do with their wealth,” her father had said. “They’ve been brought up to be of service, and to do the mahi.”

Yes, Tia definitely did the work. Despite her avowed dedication to her family, Tia’s involvement with charity wasn’t rich-woman dabbling. She was the force behind at least two major children’s charities, and donated a quarter of her shareholder income each year.

Information that had—again—been proudly shared by her parents. But Tia’s money also meant luxury European cars, a house straight out of a designer magazine, and no reason to steal a measly quarter million.

Unless, of course, Paul and Margaret had been right and someone in the family had squandered away so much cash that they’d once been on the verge of bankruptcy.

“Hurry up, Aarav.” Hemi’s tone was the wrong side of irritable. “I’ve just got back from an education conference in Sydney. I’m tired.”

Energy prickled my skin. If he’d been in Australia, it was possible he hadn’t heard about the recent discovery. “The police found my mother.”

New lines of tension formed around his eyes, his lips pursed. Hemi was a handsome man, wide-shouldered and square-jawed, and with a sense of competence about him. I could see why my mother had been drawn to him.

Switching off the radio in a quick, hard move, he said, “Where’s Nina been all this time?”

“In a rusting green Jaguar a few minutes’ drive from here.”

Hemi’s head jerked toward me, the whites of his eyes bright around his irises. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

His shock appeared genuine, but he was tipped to run in the next city council election. He had a politician’s ability to think one thing and show another on his face.

“All signs are that she’s been dead since the night she disappeared.”

She’d been wearing a sleeveless top of red silk, flowing black pants. And when she kissed me before she went out with my father, she’d smelled of expensive musk. I’d watched her walk down the steps to the ground floor, her pants moving fluidly around her legs and her hair a glossy tumble.

She’d turned back at the bottom and smiled.

“Fuck.” It was the first time I’d ever heard Hemi swear. “Fuck!”

This was it. My one shot. “Why did you threaten to kill her?”

His muscles bunched, a tick in his jaw. “I think you’d better get out of my car.”

“I kept a diary. Wrote down your exact words. I’m sure the police would love to see it.” No flinching, no hesitation, I kept going. “‘I’ll kill you, you bitch.’” I emulated his ugly tone. “‘Just give me an excuse.’”