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PROLOGUE

Davis

I glanced at the dashboard clock and groaned. Dammit .

I was going to be late.

Our thirteenth wedding anniversary and I was going to be late.

Like last year, and the year before that.

I slapped the steering wheel in anger, hung a U-turn, and planted my foot back the way I’d come. My 1980 BMW work in progress coughed in protest then kicked up gravel on the quiet country road just out of Clevedon and lurched forward. The tiny rural township southeast of Auckland was a mix of small acreages with a leaning toward the equestrian, with New Zealand Bloodstock and the Karaka Saleyards being in close proximity.

The additional ten kilometres an hour wasn’t going to solve my problem, not with the chaos of after-school pick-ups and the horror of a burgeoning rush hour, but discovering I’d inadvertently picked up one of Justin’s books along with my own when I’d left his house had screwed my last chance of making the restaurant on time.

Even if I floored my precious baby the entire forty kilometres back into town with every traffic light in my favour, a break in the usual ridiculousness of the motorway, and with God on my side, there was no way I was going to make it to that six o’clock booking. In fifteen minutes, the motorway traffic would get super gnarly, and all my carefully laid plans were about to go to hell in a rather cheap and unattractive handbag.

I knew this would happen because it always happened. That was me. I should’ve made an effort to leave early for once. But no. Being the total idiot that I was, I’d run things close to the wire... as usual... giving myself only a small window of opportunity to avoid the motorway snarl with zero room for fuck-ups.

And then, of course, I’d fucked up.

Shocker.

When I’d seen the spine of The Three Musketeers staring up at me from the passenger seat, I’d briefly considered carrying on and simply returning the damn thing by post. But I’d seen Justin with it in his hands too many times. For whatever reason, it was important to him, and since we’d decided this would be our last meet-up, it didn’t feel right not to return it straight away.

Did I mention the idiot part?

Because, goddammit, Nick was gonna kill me. He’d begged and bribed and likely sold his left kidney to get a table at the hottest eating establishment in Auckland, and making him wait thirty minutes for me to show up was hardly the ideal start to a night of romantic celebration. My balls were mincemeat, especially since I’d forgotten our anniversary altogether until Nick reminded me at breakfast with a beautiful card and an accompanying rare flare of hurt behind those intriguing grey eyes.

Colour me desperately seeking redemption.

Was I an arsehole? Why, yes. Yes, I was.

Not deliberately. It was never deliberate. But that didn’t excuse it. I’d been so consumed by the research for my next book, our wedding anniversary had completely slipped my mind. There was no excuse other than I lived in a perpetual state of distractedness that consistently drove my husband crazy. He deserved better.

I glanced again at the clock and sighed. There was a snowball’s chance in hell of me getting that redemption I so badly wanted . Makeup sex might be awesome, in theory, but Nick wasn’t a pushover for a quick apology, at least not mine. Lateness was my superpower and not one to be proud of. I could be late even after three alarms and a reminder call. I wasn’t proud of it, but I also hadn’t managed to fix it.

Nick wasn’t going to just roll over and forgive me. The man was an adorable grump with a finely tuned capacity to carry a grudge. He might own every piece of my heart, be soft as butter beneath all those frown lines, give you the shirt off his back and his trousers as well if you needed them, but there were days Nick Fisher could make Ebeneezer Scrooge look like Mary freaking Poppins.

The thought made me smile. I loved the man to bits. Nick might love me so hard that I could hardly breathe when I saw it in his eyes, but forgetting our anniversary and then being late for the dinner he’d planned? Oh yeah, I’d be lucky to get laid before Christmas... next year.

Arriving back at Justin’s small acreage, I debated just leaving the book in his letterbox, then decided against it. Knowing what he did for a living, I figured I better return it personally. Then I could skedaddle back to the city like my arse was on fire.

The driveway was a good five hundred metres and curved through a section of dense bush that hid the house from the road. When I’d left, Justin said he was done for the day, so when I rounded the last sweep of driveway and the spacious but non- descript seventies brick bungalow came into view, I blinked in surprise. Another car was parked in the exact spot I’d vacated just fifteen minutes before.

Shit.

I squeezed past the Holden and pulled off to the side under a massive liquidambar afire in autumn colour. The sea of leaves made for slippery purchase, and the car slid sideways a little before coming to a stop. I sat for a second in park with the engine running, staring at the house. If Justin had another client, the last thing he’d want was me knocking on the door. He was nothing if not discreet. I could leave his book on the doorstep or go back to the idea of dropping it in his letterbox instead. I decided on the latter.

I wedged the notebook between my thighs and was about to head back down the drive when the sound of arguing made me look back toward the house. I squinted into the fading sun, but nothing moved behind the large picture window of Justin’s front room. Then it came again. More shouting, louder this time, and coming not from the front of the house but the small glass conservatory to the side. Justin and I had consumed a beer and talked books in there one afternoon. He’d commented that it was his favourite spot to read, and it was also the place he grew marijuana for his personal use.

Behind the glass, three men stood arguing although Justin was the only man I could see clearly. He was gesticulating wildly, almost panicked. Alarm curled in my belly. He looked... terrified.

I killed the engine and reached for the door handle. Before I could open it, the taller of the two men grabbed Justin by the wrist and spun him around, shoving his face against the glass. Even from twenty metres I could see the fear in Justin’s expression, his mouth working awkwardly, shouting—no... pleading. I threw the car door open intending to... who the fuck knew what, and that’s when Justin saw me. His eyes went wide and he struggled harder. The two looked up and?—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The shorter of the two said something to Justin who started to nod. The other man walked toward the glass and stared straight at me. He clicked his fingers and Justin’s handsome face exploded in front of my eyes. Glass spewed as far as the Holden making a sickening chinking sound on its hood, and all I could do was gape wordlessly as Justin sank like a stone to the conservatory floor.

I froze.

Justin.

Holy fuck.

Justin.

He was dead. He had to be.

Half his face was splattered in chunks on the lawn not ten metres from where I sat.

The man who’d clicked his fingers was still looking at me and I could swear he was smiling. The second man sprinted from the conservatory and my heart thundered in my chest.

Go. Go. Go. I couldn’t help Justin. Not anymore.

I needed to get the hell out of there and call the police.

I slammed my door shut, my hands shaking like crazy. It took two attempts to start the engine. I threw the BMW into drive and floored it. Tyres spun in the carpet of damp leaves and the rear of the BMW drifted dangerously toward the liquidambar. I eased off the pedal, got the vehicle back under control, and the rubber finally bit deep into the grass.

I flew onto the gravel drive and out toward the gate, but images of Justin’s terrified face filled my head and I misjudged the curve, careering back onto the lawn.

“Fuck!” I spun the wheel first one way, then the other until I found traction, cursing my stupidity. Pay attention, idiot.

I’d almost reached the bush when the crack of the front door slamming back on its hinges like a rifle blast damn near stopped my heart. My gaze shot to the rear-view mirror, and the larger of the men was diving into the driver’s seat of the Holden.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I white-knuckled the wheel and floored the accelerator. But before I’d even reached the letterbox, the Holden’s grille was all up in my mirror.

My mouth ran dry, panic raging through my chest. I passed the letterbox and spun the wheel. The car’s rear end drifted, flinging me sideways into the door, and pain rocketed through my shoulder. But the car kept moving.

In the rear-view mirror I watched the Holden spin out as well, but its driver was better than me. He quickly corrected the slide and began racing to catch up.

I flew far too fast down the unsealed narrow road, barely in control, but somehow, I kept in front. One kilometre passed. Then two. A few more and I’d hit the feeder road to the motorway and a lot more traffic. I made a grab for my phone on the passenger seat, cursing my stupidity at not turning it back on after leaving Justin’s. It was one of his rules. Phones off. He checked every time.

I fumbled to turn it on, then threw it back on the seat as it powered up, only half watching the winding road as the BMW barrelled down at breakneck speed. A car passed on my right, the driver sitting on his horn when he saw me coming. I slewed the BMW hard to the left, missing him by centimetres. I hoped he’d be pissed enough to call the cops.

The Holden was gone from the rear-view mirror and my heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t have gotten that far ahead. Then he appeared again, almost alongside, trying to overtake. A horse trailer coming up the other side forced him back.

Four kilometres from Justin’s house, I swung a hard right onto a second gravel road—a shortcut I’d used once before and that I hoped the other driver was unfamiliar with. The road rose sharply for a bit, sandwiched between near vertical bluffs on one side and a yawning ravine on the other. At the top, it descended abruptly toward the main road, which I hoped meant relative safety.

I was almost at the crest when the Holden roared up behind and the BMW lurched forward. Jesus Christ! I scrambled for control, missed ploughing through a boundary fence by a whisker, and for the first time wondered if I was actually going to make it out in one piece.

I prayed for decent reception and shouted, “Hey, Siri.”

Nothing.

“Fucking stupid bloody thing,” I shouted as I careered around the next corner. Without looking, I leaned over and snagged the phone, a slew of messages and missed calls filling the screen.

Nick.

Shit.

Bile surged up my throat.

Another corner, and when the BMW threatened to spin a one-eighty, I dropped the phone in my lap and clutched the wheel with both hands. Then, as if he’d heard me, Nick’s ringtone filled the car and I screamed at Siri to answer.

“Davis, where the hell are—” The call cut off and I cursed the arsehole reception in this godforsaken hole.

The Holden’s grille was coming up fast for another go, and all thoughts of calling the police evaporated in a desperate need to hear Nick’s voice. “Hey, Siri, call Nick.” The dial tone filled the car just as the Holden edged alongside my BMW and the driver glared sideways at me. I slammed my foot on the accelerator and pulled in front, but I was going too fast and almost didn’t make the next corner.

“Pick up. Pick up,” I screamed at the phone as it continued to ring. “Goddammit, Nick. Don’t get pissy with me now. Pick up!”

Another corner with the Holden right on my tail.

“Nick, come on!”

The main road into Clevedon appeared in the distance, snaking its way through the vibrant green hills. Almost there. Almost there.

But in my haste, I took the next corner way too fast. The back spun out and the whole car seemed to float in mid-air for a few seconds as it crossed the centreline and careered out of control toward a five-wire fence.

“Davis?” Nick’s beautiful, irritated voice flooded my brain at the very moment the BMW ploughed through the fence at a hundred kilometres an hour, ripping the anchoring posts from the ground, and flying off into mid-air. “If you’re gonna be late again, I swear I’ll?—”

I missed the rest, a strange sense of calm rolling through my body as the BMW pitched down, hovering for just a second above the rocky ravine before dropping like a stone.

“I love you,” I whisper-shouted against the G-forces holding me in place. “Forgive me.”

“Davis? Where?—”

Thunder filled my ears and the world went black.