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Back The Last Guests Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART ONE
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. DEADLY SAS RAID IN AFGHANISTAN UNDER SCRUTINY
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. PART TWO
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. DANIEL MOORE: ‘A SINGLE BLOKE, HAPPY-GO-LUCKY, A BIT OF A DUNCE BUT WITH A GOOD HEART,’ BEST FRIEND SAYS.
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. THIRTY-TWO
  41. THIRTY-THREE
  42. THIRTY-FOUR
  43. THIRTY-FIVE
  44. BREAKING: POLICE CONFIRM DANIEL MOORE ACTED ALONE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. SECOND ARREST MADE IN WESTAY HIDDEN CAMERAS CASE
  50. EPILOGUE
  51. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  52. Discover More
  53. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  54. Also by J. P. Pomare

I try to smile, but it ends up more of a sigh, like letting go of something heavy. I slip into his embrace, feeling safe. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘I am right.’

Outside the window, I see someone rowing on the lake, dragging himself through the water. It’s the old man from the cafe. A green boiler suit and a bucket hat. He turns, aiming his dark eyes at the house. He continues on.

I twist around in Cain’s arms and we stand looking out over the landscape in the shadow of the mountain. I’m still watching the man paddling along as Cain rests his hands on my shoulders, digs his thumbs in and rolls them up to the base of my neck.

‘We can go down to Lucky Egg,’ he says. ‘Make a night of it.’ He places his thumb tips just below the occipital bone.

‘Okay,’ I say, tilting my head. ‘Right there.’ He presses a little harder. The landscape outside darkens as a cloud moves before the sun. ‘Why don’t we take that bottle of wine to Lucky Egg tonight?’

‘It was for the guests.’

‘Their loss,’ he says. ‘I feel like we need a good drink and a night to unwind.’

I nod but I feel like my emotions are tripwires that I’m going to get snagged on at any moment. Someone is doing this, someone is trying to scare me. It’s Daniel. If he has been in the house, hung my dress up like this – what else is he capable of?

FIFTEEN

AS WE HEAD out in the early evening towards Rotorua, I turn my eyes towards the jumping spot; I can’t quite see the ladder but I can see a group of boys moving through the trees towards it. It’ll be cold, especially in the late afternoon shade, but it’s always been a ritual for boys that age out here in the lakes area: rugby on the weekends, driving dusty old cars, drinking at the ski lane and jumping from heights into icy water. It’s a particularly Kiwi pastime. Occasionally my mind wanders away from the photo, from the dress, but always my body knows, the trembling energy inside is like an illness, something terminal.

Cain navigates between the lakes all the way into town. We drive past the skatepark, in the twilight there are kids on bikes near the corner, talking, each with one foot on a pedal and one on the ground, others roll by on scooters. I follow Cain’s eyes to an old shopfront, long since empty. Above it the latest coat of paint has flecked off and you can make out the block letters that read ‘TV Repairs’. Next door, second-hand whitegoods crowd the footpath in front of Billy’s Electrical.