things as an insider who’d turned outsider for a while, said, “It would have to be one of us. A stranger who came back fifteen years apart would’ve been noticed—and there are no strangers in town.”
Tom, Kyle—everyone but Nik—all stared at her before Tom swore under his breath.
“This has nothing to do with those lost hikers.” Vincent’s voice. He’d come to stand beside his taller younger brother. “Golden Cove has its problems, but a serial murderer?” A hard shake of his head. “Even the police back then said it was just bad luck and coincidence.” His tone was calm, practical. “We’re not kids making up scary stories now, and Miriama is alive, probably hurt. I, for one, am going to keep looking.”
Several heads nodded at his firm statement, but Anahera caught the bitter truth in too many eyes—most people thought Miriama was gone, never to be found.
As she began to move on, Kyle stepped out of the group and toward her. “It feels weird to say this now”—an uncomfortable teenage shrug—“but welcome back to the Cove, Ana.”
“Thank you, Kyle.” Leaving him with a small smile, she headed back to the table that held the large coffee urn.
A slender woman stood nearby: blonde, with lovely green eyes, she had the kind of face and bearing that shouted private schooling and wealth. Or maybe it was her waterproof jacket. Though that, in itself, wasn’t unusual in this crowd. All the old-timers as well as many of the younger crew had brought along waterproof gear when they saw the clouds on the horizon.
What made the blonde stand out was that her waterproof gear likely cost something like five times—no, that was being conservative—it was probably more like ten times the price of what everyone else was wearing.
She also wore a black knit cap, which had survived being soaked through, so she’d been smart enough to pull the hood of her jacket over it while outside. Her facial bones were the kind that would age beautifully. But she wasn’t beautiful, this woman. She was… elegant. That was when it clicked, the woman’s identity.
Jemima Baker, Vincent’s wife.
Anahera had seen her in the photos Vincent had posted on his social media page. In those photos, however, Jemima was always dressed to the nines and out at some charity gala or other black-tie event. Her hair was usually a sleek blonde sheet, glossy and without a strand out of place, her makeup flawless.
In the last image Anahera could remember seeing, the other woman had worn a black sheath dress, a string of pearls around her neck. In her hand had been a little clutch with the double C logo that defined Chanel.
No wonder Anahera hadn’t immediately recognized her; today, despite her expensive gear, Jemima Baker stood as damp and bedraggled as everyone else. On her feet were worn-in hiking boots suitable for this climate and area, and the backs of her hands bore fresh scratches, as if she’d pushed through the dense growth looking for Miriama.
Shame pricked Anahera—she, along with all their friends, had just assumed that Vincent had married Jemima because she fit the mold of what his parents would’ve wanted for him: an educated, lovely woman who’d be the perfect hostess, but who was also smart and intelligent enough to rise with him as he climbed the political ladder. The timing of the marriage—a bare year after the elder Bakers’ deaths—had only cemented that general opinion.
None of them had ever considered that Vincent might’ve fallen for his wife because she had a heart as down-to-earth as his own. Seeing Jemima as she stood looking at the search map with worry carved into her features, Anahera resolved to do better, to get to know this woman her friend had married. “Here.” She handed Jemima a mug of freshly poured coffee. “You look like you could use this.”
Jemima’s fingers brushed hers as she took the mug. They were like ice. “I hope Miriama isn’t out in this,” the other woman said in a soft tone that wouldn’t reach Matilda. “It’s getting cold out there. Really cold.”
“Which section were you in?” Anahera asked, and was surprised when Jemima mentioned a location quite distant from Vincent’s. As if reading her surprise, Jemima said, “I arrived a little after Vincent—I wanted to make sure the children were settled.”
Anahera kept forgetting Vincent was now a father. “I’m Anahera, by the way.” She held out her hand. “The one who’s been in London for a while.”
Jemima’s face softened as they shook hands,