tried to think of a single nonglamorous image of Jemima, and couldn’t.
Surely that couldn’t be right.
She put down her coffee and went into the bedroom, to return with her old laptop. Opening it up, she used her phone to create a hot spot, then logged into her social media account and clicked her way to Vincent’s.
30
There it was, the evidence showcased in glittering dresses and sparkling diamonds. All of them with Jemima perfectly posed and made up. The ideal woman to hang on a man’s arm and act as his hostess, or to stand supportively behind her politician husband, but one with no real personal drive outside of her defined role in life.
An intelligent doll.
“I can’t believe I never consciously noticed this before.” In her defense, she’d had no real reason to ever think about Jemima. If the other woman did cross her mind, it had been as an adjunct of Vincent.
Having come to stand at her side, one hand on the back of her chair, Will reached out to tap an image. “Vincent puts up normal photos of himself. Could be he’s just one of those men who likes to show off a beautiful wife.”
The heat of Will’s body brushed against her. For a furious instant, she wanted to tell him to get back, wanted to push him away. She had no need for men in her life. Her aloneness had been brutally earned, was craved.
Gritting her teeth, she wrenched the betraying impulse under control and forced her attention to the photos: Vincent playing with his kids, coming home from a bike ride through the countryside, and that infamous one of him caked in mud after a charity soccer match that had taken place on a rain-soaked field.
He looked real, human.
“You didn’t connect with Jemima online?” Will asked.
“I really only joined to keep up with close friends.” Pausing, she thought about it. “Though, I am friends with Keira, but she sent me the request and I just accepted it.” The girl who’d once told her about her dead brother had been Nikau’s wife at the time. “I don’t know if Jemima even has a profile. Vincent hasn’t tagged her in any of these photos.”
She did a search to make sure. “No profile. At least nothing that comes up.”
Will released the back of her chair, rose to his full height. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange? She’s a woman with a certain public image to maintain. I’d think she’d want control over that.”
“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