She did know Vincent. He was one of her oldest friends. And this cop was asking her to betray him.
Getting up, she went to check the fire. It crackled and sparked in direct contrast to the heavy drumming of rain on the cabin’s tin roof, the howling wind held barely at bay. “As a child,” she found herself saying after getting up from her crouch, “I always loved storms. The sounds, the smell of ozone in the air, how my mother would sleep over with me so I wouldn’t be scared.”
Anahera stared down at the orange-red glow of the flames. “I wasn’t scared, but I never told her because I liked it so much when she stayed with me.” Her mother’s body had been a warm bulk, one that meant love and affection and safety.
“I used to like storms, too—before I became a cop,” Will said from his seat at the table. “You’d be surprised how stupid people get during this kind of weather. Worst is when cabin fever sets in.”
“Do people hurt each other more?” Her father had punched her mother so often that Anahera had seen no difference during storms.
“Yes. And it’s mostly people who know each other and say they love one another.”
The words fell in between them like unexploded grenades. She saw realization dawn in his eyes a second later. He immediately shook his head. “That wasn’t a dig. Every cop I know hates domestic violence callouts. They have a tendency to go bad very quickly.”
Anahera turned her attention back to the fire, to the flames and the heat and the warmth that couldn’t reach the ice in her heart. “No need to tiptoe around the truth,” she said. “My father did beat my mother. Badly. Everyone in Golden Cove knows that.”
It was impossible to hide bruises when they went three deep.
“Nikau and Josie tell me he’s turned over a new leaf, goes to AA meetings every month. But that doesn’t change the past, does it? It doesn’t disappear my mother’s black eyes and broken bones and splintered spirit. It doesn’t bring her back.”
Anahera didn’t believe in forgiveness, not for that crime. Whether or not Jason Rawiri had physically pushed her off that ladder, sociable Haeata had only lived in this cabin far from her friends because she owned nothing else. Jason had taken it all, every cent she’d ever earned. Only Anahera’s grandparents’ cabin remained. A safe place for Haeata to move with her daughter, but not one she could’ve sold for any real gain. As it was, even with Anahera contributing through part-time jobs, they’d barely managed the outgoings.
If Haeata had had the money to rent in town, a neighbor would’ve noticed she wasn’t around outside pottering away. Someone would’ve checked on her.
And Anahera’s mother wouldn’t have bled to death cold and alone.
“I can’t answer your question about Vincent’s loyalty to his wife,” she said into the heavy silence. “The boy I knew was the straightest arrow in our group. But those pictures he puts up of Jemima, like she’s a shiny trophy and not a real person… that’s not the Vincent I know.”
Her mind kept gnawing on the whole thing. What if it wasn’t just bragging about a trophy or showing off? What if he wanted to shape his wife’s image to keep others at a distance from her?
Why would he do that? Consciously isolate Jemima?
The cold in Anahera’s bones turned as brittle as her mother’s too-often-fractured left arm. “You don’t think he might be hurting her?”
“I’ve never seen any indications of that.” Will rose to join her by the fire. “But people are good at hiding the bruises. A woman in Jemima’s position, with such a strong public profile, would probably work extra hard to make sure no one found out.”
“My mother wasn’t wealthy or well-known like Jemima, but she was still ashamed to admit that her husband beat her.” Even though everyone already knew. “She couldn’t bear it that others would think her weak.” Never understanding the shame wasn’t hers but his. “The psychological damage can be as debilitating as the physical.”
Will nodded. “And Jemima probably hasn’t got anyone to turn to in this country.”
It was only then Anahera remembered that Vincent had met his wife in South Africa. “She doesn’t have an accent.”
“I always thought that was a political move meant to help Vincent.” Will braced his forearm on the mantel. “Losing the accent and trying to sound like a local.”