but an accident. Her injuries were consistent with a fall from a ladder.” That ladder had been found next to her, as had a smashed photo frame.
An empty picture hook on the wall had stood silent witness.
“I’ve done my reading, too.” Harsher words now. “So I know that cops and forensics people can’t always distinguish between a fall and someone pushing you off so that you fall and break bones, crack your skull.”
Will couldn’t argue with her; he’d witnessed a number of high-profile cases where the question of whether a fall had been accidental or not had never been answered. “Why didn’t your mother ever press charges against your father?” The lack of any such report had meant the outside investigators had no reason to consider foul play.
Anahera’s head swung toward him. “Are you saying it was my mother’s fault?”
“No.” Will kept his tone even by sheer strength of will. “Abuse is the abuser’s fault.” It was what he’d always believed, what had led him to promise a little boy named Alfie that he’d be safe, that the monster wouldn’t get to him. “I just don’t understand her choice.” As he hadn’t understood the fatal choice made by Alfie Hart’s mother.
“From everything I read in the file, your mother was a strong woman.” Haeata Rawiri had run her own small dressmaking business throughout the marriage, was spoken of as a valued member of the community. Yet she’d stayed with her violent husband. And she hadn’t reported his violence. Not even when her husband hit their child.
Will’s hands squeezed the steering wheel.
Anahera didn’t reply.
Eventually, Will turned on the radio and the two of them moved through the lonely, beautiful landscape while listening to the cohosts bantering with one another about a rock star who had an addiction to rehab.
He’d long ago given up on getting an answer when she said, “He saved her once.” Her voice was cold, distant. “My mother was born into an abusive family and my father came along on his motorbike and whisked her away to a life of adventure and exploration. The first three years, she always told me, were wonderful. She was free and she wasn’t afraid and he was her Prince Charming.”
“What changed?”
“My father likes to blame everything on losing his job when the big factory out Greymouth way shut down.” Her tone made it clear what she thought of that excuse. “That’s what my mother used to say as well—that he lost his manhood when he couldn’t support his family and we had to rely on her income and on welfare.” She snorted. “All pure bullshit. What kind of manhood is it to pound on your wife and child?”
Will’s mind blazed with the image of a burning house, flames licking up to the roof and the heat so violent it scalded. “That’s not manhood,” he said as the scarred skin on his back seemed to tighten. “That’s weakness.”
Anahera went silent again, and the two of them drove on through empty roads surrounded by trees and tangled undergrowth, past a glacier-fed river that glittered arctic blue, and in the shadow of mountains that had stood for thousands of years, their peaks capped with snow.
They stopped for coffee midway, but neither one of them was hungry for lunch.
Traffic began to pick up during the second half of their journey, but it was free-flowing, no breakdowns or delays. They’d made excellent time—just over three hours, forty-five minutes—and all too soon were in the heart of civilization and it felt like a bright flashlight shining into the face after the smudged light of Golden Cove.
Too many cars, too many people, too many noises—from the construction site on the corner to the teenager banging out a rhythm on an outdoor drum set to the driver gesticulating angrily at another.
“Do you have anything else to do in the city?”
Anahera stirred. “I need to pick up a new laptop. I ordered it online and they’re holding it for me. I didn’t want to risk it coming via courier.”
“Let’s pick that up last. Otherwise, you’d have to carry it around or risk leaving it in the vehicle.” He was too pragmatic to imagine that this being a police vehicle would stop thieves from breaking in—some people lived to cross boundaries, the thrill of the act as important as what they might get.
“That works for me. How many jewelers will we be visiting?”
“I’ve got a list of ten.” He stopped at a red light. “That doesn’t include the more mass-market jewelers. We’ll