Page 1 of Midnight Enemy

Chapter One

Scarlett

“You’d better get going,” Anahera says. “You don’t want to be late.”

It’s a beautiful, warm March morning. Summer is hanging on by its fingertips, and the trees haven’t yet donned their autumn coats. Bathed in buttery yellow sunshine, Waiheke Island off the coast of Auckland, New Zealand, is a paradise like no other. Seriously, there can’t be anywhere in the world more amazing than this place, with its emerald hills and dark-green forests surrounded by the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean. I’d rather be here than anywhere else on Earth.

Which is why the absolute last thing I want to do is take the ferry to Auckland and spend the morning in the city.

“I honestly don’t mind driving in with you,” my sister says, passing me the last plate after washing it in the sink.

I take it from her, dry it with a tea towel, and place it in the cupboard. “No, it’s okay. I’m looking forward to a bike ride.”

“Go on,” she says, “I’ll finish up here. I don’t want you to be late.”

I hang the tea towel on the hook, lean a hip against the worktop, and look out of the window. A single mum and her thirteen-year-old daughter have recently arrived at the commune to stay in the retreat, and one of our members is giving them the tour, showing them the vegetable gardens and the chickens.

The Women’s Refuge in Auckland referred them here, as they’ve just escaped an abusive husband and father. It’s clear they’ve bothsuffered physically and emotionally, and they need serious healing. The woman has one arm in a sling, and I watch her put the other around the girl as they walk across the central lawn we call The Green, pausing to watch the ducks on the pond. The girl looks haunted, although she smiles as she gives the ducks some of the grapes we grow in the vineyard. I hope we can help her smile more often.

Well, that’s why I’m going to the law firm, right?

“Okay.” I hug Ana and kiss her cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. You go and have fun.” Ana is a classroom assistant in the commune’s tiny school, and she’s taking the little ones on a nature walk this morning.

“Take care in the city,” she says.

“I will. See you soon.”

I go out of the refectory, walk the short distance to our cottage, and let myself in. Ana’s right; I don’t want to be late. It’s warm and I’m going to be cycling, so I change into my jumpsuit—it’s navy from the ribs down, and the top is white with red stripes. I’m not going to be able to shower and change when I get there, but I roll up a summer dress and put it in a bag—I can slip that on over the top of my cycling gear, and with a pair of sandals instead of trainers I should look presentable enough.

After braiding my hair into a long plait, I spot the red roses that Ana picked this morning in a pot on my dresser. Smiling, I choose one of the buds, break off the thorns, and slide it into my hair just above my ear. Mum planted the bushes, and we always try to have a few indoors to remind us of her. It makes me feel as if she’ll be with me today, which gives me confidence.

I grab my money purse and a notebook and pen and put them in the bag, don my sunglasses, then go outside and over to the bike stand. I choose my favorite bicycle, which has a scarlet frame and a basket on the front, put my bag into the basket, then set off for the passenger ferry.

It takes me fifteen minutes to get to the marina. It’s a beautiful journey through the luscious countryside, with the Pacific Ocean sparkling in front of me like a huge sapphire. Tui birds call from the trees, and I see several rabbits on the grassy borders before they bolt into the bush.

Luckily I’ve timed it just right, so I only have five minutes to wait before I board the ferry. I push my bike on, find a seat at the front of the boat, and lean the bike against the railings beside me. Before long, we’re moving through the water heading west for Auckland.

I haven’t been to the city in months. I don’t enjoy going. The journey is pleasant enough, weaving past Rangitoto Island with its volcanic peak, past all the boats in the City of Sails, to the Downtown Ferry Terminal near Mechanics Bay. But soon I’ll be confronted with the noise and smells and energies of the 1.7 million people who live here. I find it overwhelming, to be honest. So as the ferry docks and everyone starts disembarking, I pop my earphones in and start playing some music on my MP3 player.

Singing to Joni Mitchell’sBig Yellow Taxi, I set off for Carter Wright Lawyers, which is at the edge of the Central Business District, not far from Auckland Domain—the oldest park in the city. I have a map, and I stop a couple of times to take it out and make sure I’m going in the right direction. It takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. It’s hot here in the city, and humid, and by the time I pull up outside, I’m sweating and starting to wish I’d come by car.

I also realize I’ve forgotten to bring a bicycle lock. We don’t need them in the commune, but I should have picked one up from the office. I don’t really want to leave the bike outside because I’ve heard stories of people stealing them, crazy as it sounds. After resting it on the front window of the law firm, I go through the door.

The reception area is large and open plan, with light wooden floors and a curving front desk. The name Carter Wright Lawyers is carved into the front of the desk and surrounded by swirling Maori patterns. Elegant green plants stand in pots, and near the receptionist is a vase of white roses, soft pink Lisianthus, and green hydrangeas. It’s cool in here, and I can’t see a fan, so they must have air conditioning.

To the right is a visitor section with a water cooler, a coffee machine, and a row of cream chairs. A guy in a suit sits at one end of the row. He looks up as I cross the room, but I don’t make eye contact and instead smile at the young woman behind the desk.

“Good morning,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for a meeting at ten o’clock with Mr. Carter,” I reply. “Um… I’ve forgotten a bicycle lock, and I don’t really want to leave my bike outside. Would it be okay if I brought it in and left it here?”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll let Mr. Carter know you’re here.”

“Thank you.” I go back outside, collect my bike, and return to the door. It opens outward, and it’s either ridiculously heavy or the spring on it is super strong, because I struggle for a moment to hold it open and get the bike in, afraid of scratching the glass.

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