“Why are you asking me?” He moved to the counter and wiped the coffee machine. “I’m no expert on relationships.”

“But you’re good with people. You understand people. And you always say you’ve got to look for the reason people do things. So why did she divorce him after two decades?”

Nate stacked clean cups. “Probably one affair too many.”

“That was my first assumption, but then I started thinking. She’d already put up with countless affairs, so it can’t have been that. It must have been something else.”

Nate sighed. “Do you want to tell me what you think it was, so that we can end this conversation?”

“I don’t know. That’s the thing.” She frowned. “I can’t figure it out. I looked at all the news stuff again, tried to figure out what happened a year ago, but there’s nothing.”

“Maybe she’d just had enough.” Nate smiled over her shoulder to a customer and Mel knew the conversation was over.

There would be no more talk about Joanna, not with Nate at least.

As usual they’d had one of those conversation where she did all the talking, and he listened but gave very little in the way of a response.

She was still no closer to knowing what he was thinking.

She headed to the office, sat down at the desk and flicked to the news. There were pictures of the press outside of Joanna’s house, and speculation that she was no longer even staying there.

No one seemed to know where she was.

Mel sighed, switched to the spreadsheet she’d been working on the day before and tried to ignore the pull of regret that tugged at her insides.

Wherever Joanna was, she hoped she was doing okay.

8

Joanna

Joanna gripped the wheel of the unfamiliar vehicle.

She was going back. Having said she’d never do it, having put the past behind her, she was going back. It was a logical decision. She owned a house in Silver Point. There was no reason why she shouldn’t stay there for a while.

She felt a moment of sick dread and reasoned with herself. How could the memories of her old life possibly be worse than the realities of her current one?

And she wasn’t going back to the past, not really. For a start, her stepmother wasn’t there. Neither was the old Otter’s Nest. The rotten planks and the corners, cracks and creaks of the original beach house were gone. Now, there were only the memories and she wasn’t going to think about those.

Never call me “Mom.” I’m not your mom.