“Of course.”
“And he doesn’t care?”
“He’s married, too.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Michael,” she starts, her tone pleading, but I won’t hear any of it.
“Don’t you dare say my name.” I have the feeling that something inside me is about to snap like a rubber band. Breathe. Just breathe. “Not from your lying, cheating whore mouth.”
I pinch her lips between my fingers and squeeze.
She jerks away. “Don’t touch me, Michael.”
At her defiance, adrenaline spikes through me. My hands fly up to her neck. I want to shut her up. I want her to barely be able to breathe. My fingers crush her windpipe. I’ve got her fully in my grasp, under my control.
“Let me go.” She struggles to form the words. Finally, I see horror in her eyes.
“Do I know him? What’s his name?”
She shakes her head, wet hair thrashing. “Get off me.”
I press my thumbs harder into the groove at the base of her throat. Her face distorts, twisting and turning as my stomach churns. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I hear a whisper of caution, but I cast it aside. I’m too far gone. She deserves this.
“I gave you everything, every piece of clothing in your closet, the car you drive, the bed you sleep in—but he’s the one you let put hands on you? I bet you let him touch you any way he wants. Because that’s what whores do.” The thing that’d been coiling inside my gut moments before finally breaks free, releasing a tidal wave of hatred that threatens to drown me. “And you really thought you could have both? Your husband to love and other guys to fuck. Our goddamn anniversary is tomorrow, Joanna.”
Tears drip down my cheeks, but I don’t soften. Nothing will diminish my rage. She lifts her chin defiantly, as if she’s done nothing wrong, as if she hasn’t just ripped out my heart and stomped on the pieces.
“Five years, and this is what you give me? You’re not the woman I thought you were. You’re nothing but a dirty slut.”
The words fall from my lips, vile and toxic, but once they’re out there, I feel instantly relieved. It’s as if I’ve purged the venom from my veins. I don’t loosen my grip on her neck.
“You’re a demon,” she croaks. Her voice is strained, but rebelliousness blazes in her narrowed eyes. “I don’t know why I ever wanted to have a child with you.”
I jolt back and let my fist fly. She screams and cowers as my hand hits the wall over her shoulder, bursting through the drywall with a sharp crack. Eyes pinched shut, Joanna sinks to the floor and covers her head with her arms, but I can’t stop now.
The world falls into darkness, and I can’t feel my body, can’t think a single rational thought. But I can hear everything. Shrieks of pain. Cries for help. The creak of the back door. Footsteps pounding through the living room and into the front yard. And then, finally, an eternity later, the wail of a siren.
COLLEEN
Rousing from my broken slumber slowly, achingly, I instinctively search for the warmth of Michael’s body. Reaching out, I claw at nothing but cold sheets, and grip them in my fists.
A peck on the cheek before he got out of bed would’ve been nice. Or, seeing that I’d kicked off the covers, it would’ve been thoughtful if he’d replaced them at my chin. He could’ve whispered a few choice words in my ear to inspire an amazing dream. Any one of those loving things would’ve started my day off right. We could forget about dinner at the Martins’ and how we went to sleep angry last night. We could start fresh.
Instead, I wake exhausted and searching for him.
Rolling over with a groan, I check the time on my cell.
Eight-fifteen.
A text alert darts across the screen. It’s from Michael, thirty minutes ago:
Morning luv. Going into work late today so we can spend some time together. Went for a walk in the grove to kill time until you wake up. Back in about an hr. xo
Excitement bubbles through me at the prospect of spending time together this morning. Michael must be bothered by how we went to bed angry. I’m sure he too wants to put last night behind us and move forward. But why would he venture into the grove? The police probably still have the search perimeter up. The last thing he needs is to be entangled in their investigation.
What are the chances someone would find a corpse across the street the day after I move in to Ravenwood? I’d say it’s perfect timing, but nothing is perfect about this. This time with Michael was supposed to be quiet and relaxing. Bonding time. Now it could be ruined.
Slipping into my new favorite cashmere robe, I pad down the hall, swiping my finger over my phone. Yawning, using the banister to steady myself, I reread Michael’s text.
Back in about an hr.
For no reason at all, my gaze flickers to the east wing. It’d be wrong to try the doors, to check one more time if they’re unlocked, wouldn’t it? It’d definitely be a violation of Michael’s privacy. Especially since he explicitly told me not to go in there. I can’t help but be curious, though. It’s kind of weird to block off a large part of one’s home, to leave it unlived-in, isn’t it?
Even though I know I shouldn’t be, I’m drawn to those rooms.
I only want to see what he keeps in there. One peek, and then I’ll forget all about that dark hall. Racing back to the master bedroom, I head toward the nightstand where I’d set my purse after coming home last night. I dig through the pockets, find Joanna’s keys—my keys—and clutch them as I dart back into the forbidden wing.
Listening, getting a read on activity in the house, I hear something sizzling downstairs in the kitchen. Dean’s hard at work cooking God-knows-what. Probably something Joanna gobbled up with a smile. Behind me, down the hall I’d just come from, there’s a rush of water. The clank of something banging around in the dryer. The sound of a woman humming. Samara is busy with laundry.
There’s not going to be a better time.
Nothing wrong with exploring my new house, I think, though deep down I know better.
Walking barefoot over the tile, I’m hyper-aware of the sound of my footsteps, which echoes my heartbeat. Thump-thump-thump as I rush over the bridge linking the safety of the west wing to the mystery of the east. Thump-thump-thump as I turn the handle on the closest door. The first key doesn’t work. It must unlock most of the other doors in the house, as Samara had said. I try the second key. It turns easily. With my heart in my throat, I push the door open.
The room is still and clean, sunlight flooding through the uncovered windows. It’s a billiards room, with a massive mahogany table in the center and a rack of poles hanging on the wall. I confess I’m a little disappointed.
The second locked door swings open to reveal a home movie theater, dark, with stale air. All the windows here are hidden by thick swags of rich purple velvet. Not a glimmer of sunlight comes through. Three slightly elevated rows of black leather seats are situated in the middle, and the largest movie screen I’ve ever seen in a private home is mounted on the wall.
I move quickly on, from one room to the next, unlocking Ravenwood’s secrets. A gym, an office, and two bathrooms, just as Michael had mentioned. Still, I’m drawn to the door at the end of the hall. Even the ornate wood carvings set it apart from the rest.
Will I be able to unlock it like the others?
“The second master,” I whisper, as though it’s sacred.
I move closer, heart in my throat, listening for the soft beeping of the alarm to alert me to Michael’s return.
Gripping the key I’d used to unlock the other rooms, I slide it into the lock and turn the handle downward.
It releases.
The door opens a sliver, and a draft of perfumed air escapes the room.
I gasp softly, covering my mouth with my hand. I
know that smell….
It’s familiar, tantalizingly so, and yet I can’t place it. Shadows cloak everything beyond the threshold, but when I pocket the key and push the door open wide, light from the hall spills into the room.
The layout is identical to the other master, only flipped. The windows here face the Martins’ rather than the sea. The walls are painted soothing shades of cream, matching the mohair rug. It’s fully furnished, with a bedroom set identical to the one we’ve been sharing. Four-poster bed. White duvet folded back. Row upon row of fluffed pillows resting against the headboard. Two nightstands, each with a tall lamp. A crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the vaulted ceiling, splashing rainbows of splintered light onto the walls.
It’s beautiful. I’m breathless, the tension finally catching up with me. So this was what Joanna wanted. All the trappings of her marriage, but with her husband subtracted.
The bathroom is spotlessly clean, as if Michael’s expecting a guest. Hand towels are folded and draped over the edge of the sink. I brush my hands over them and let my fingers sink into their softness. Bottles of body oil and lotion and perfume line the vanity.
“Why couldn’t we open up this room to guests?” I wonder aloud.
Row upon row of the most gorgeous dresses I’ve ever seen hang in the closet, perfectly organized by color and length, dark to light. I wander inside, caressing sequins and silk and fur before spotting shelves lined with purses and clutches, all in their proper place. Feeling a little like Cinderella, I peruse the wall of shoes—Louboutins and Guccis and Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos, arranged by style, and probably dollar amount. Every single pair looks to be the same size.
My insides go ice-cold, and my vision swims. This is someone’s room.
The weight of the realization crashes down on me. I can’t let the truth seep in, can’t believe what I’ve walked into. My stomach twists, and I swear I’m going to be sick.
“Joanna…”
These are her designer shoes, her purses, her clothes. Her immaculately arranged, everything-in-its-place master bedroom. I back out of the closet, nearly stumbling over the rug. Dizzy with a bizarre mixture of confusion and envy, I reach for something to hold on to, something to steady myself. I strike the dresser with the back of my hand. A single framed picture wobbles, and I grab at it to keep it from falling. My fingers curl around an image of Michael and Joanna locked in a passionate embrace in front of the Eiffel Tower.
I hungrily swallow the details.
Rachael was right: Joanna’s flawless. I notice the radiance of her smile first. It’s the beam of a woman deliriously in love with the man who holds her in his arms. Her tilted face is heart-shaped, her lips pouty and lush. I can tell how perfect her body is from the gentle slope of her narrow shoulders. She’s petite, but not weak. Defended by wealth, she glows with unblemished confidence, like the other women who parade across the sidewalk each morning.
I’ve been comparing myself to her, to women like her, my whole adult life. I’m not an extrovert who commands the attention of other people. I’m not what one would call “naturally beautiful.” I’m not voluptuous. I’ve never been told my smile lights up the room, and I know why. There’s nothing “special” about me. And now, standing in the middle of Joanna’s room, surrounded by her things, in her home that’s supposed to be mine, I slam into the one depressing conclusion I’ve feared most: I don’t measure up.
Not by a long shot.
Everything here is still set up the way she must have left it. That means Michael’s been waiting for her to come back….But if that were the case, why would he invite me here in the first place? What was his plan if Joanna were to walk in the door, ready to pick up their life together right where she left off?
Trembling, I replace the picture where it’d been, right beside a vanilla-scented candle and a small gilt lamp. She’s staring right at me. She’s grinning because she’s certain she has a hold on Michael, even now that he’s mine.
She knows she’s won.
I turn for the door. But nestled on the opposite side of the entry to the bathroom, another closed door catches my eye. The other master doesn’t have a door that matches this one.
Downstairs, a door slams.
“Colleen? Honey? I’m back!”
Heart hammering against my ribs, I stare at the door as Michael calls my name again. I’m not going to get another chance like this one. I grab the handle and swing the door open wide.
Oh, he kept a—he couldn’t have—but why would he have—oh my God, no.
It’s a nursery.
Complete with mahogany furniture set, bright yellow rug, a crib—Lord help me—decorated with a patchwork quilt, and a carousel whose tiny stuffed animals dance in midair. The only thing missing is a baby.
Their baby.
MICHAEL
Any other day, I’d be up at six-thirty, scrolling through incoming emails on my phone, even as I stumble into the kitchen. Then it’s downing my coffee while I turn on the television and watch the news. I have a lot riding on my investments, and although I have people monitoring them for me, I like to be in the know. Then, it’s the drive into the city, which is hellacious if there’s traffic.
Today, though, I decided it’d be best to slow things down, and take some time to clear our heads before we start to do and say things we don’t mean.
I was up well before dawn. I couldn’t bear to wake Colleen. She was deeply asleep, fists gripping the pillow, fierce as a child. Rather than interrupt what might’ve been the first solid night of sleep she’s had in months, I snuck out of bed, threw on some clothes, and went for a walk. I needed fresh air to think, to clear my head. To remind myself that while things may be difficult now, we’re in the middle of a giant transition. And transitions are always difficult.
Things will get easier.
At first, I thought I’d head to the beach, but my feet had other plans. Call it morbid curiosity, but I wanted to know what the grove looked like now that the police had swarmed through it.
The police tape and tents were gone, but the scent of fresh, wet earth hung in the air. Fog lingered beneath the canopy too, blanketing the ground. I stood at the place where they’d dragged the body from the mud.
No one is in the grove at this hour, so I’m not worried about anyone seeing me near the grave. No one in this neighborhood gets moving before six. No one except for Distillery Don, who sits at the cliff’s edge drinking his morning mug of coffee and Baileys. He’s usually working off a hangover, and mostly keeps to himself.
As usual, he doesn’t notice when I walk by. Doesn’t turn around, not even when I greet him by name. Someone who didn’t know him better might think he’s deaf. But I know he just prefers to keep his mornings sacred and quiet.
I skirt the burial site and head straight through the grove, beneath the web of tangled branches, to the northern edge and back again. The earth is uneven and still muddy, but I’m not worried about losing my footing. I’ve gotten to know the grove trails well. I could maneuver through them blindfolded. I sidestep fallen logs. Duck beneath low branches. Stop for a few minutes at the northern lookout point and stare out to sea. As dawn breaks, I check my watch.
It’s happened again.
I’ve lost track of time. It’s like the grove shares the same mysterious magnetism as the Bermuda Triangle. It’s not the first time I’ve misplaced a few hours while hiking through these trees.
I cut through rows of cypresses to head back the quickest way possible. Distillery Don has left his post for the day, and the sea lions have begun to bark.
Colleen has to be awake by now.
I approach Ravenwood from the front—the shortest route coming from the grove—and cut through the garden up to the front door. Have to tell the groundskeeper to trim those hedges. They’re overgrown and crowding t
he path. I’m shocked to see the roses dying. They were Joanna’s favorite flower, but they didn’t even last through the first part of winter. Pity they were too weak.
Once inside, I throw a greeting to Dean, who’s busy crafting the menus for the day, and call out to Colleen. It takes her a while to answer, and as I’m taking off my jacket, I swear I hear footsteps upstairs.
But that can’t be right, because that would mean she’s in the east wing.
“Colleen?” I call out again. “Where are you?”
“On my way down,” she answers. “Be there in a minute.”
I don’t want to make something out of nothing, so I smile as she shuffles down the stairs. She’s wearing Joanna’s cashmere robe. Why can’t she find something else to wear? Something that’s hers.
“Hey,” I say. “Been up long?”
She shrugs. “About twenty minutes.”
“That’s good.” I give her a hug and kiss her forehead. I almost wish I’d woken her this morning. The walk might have done her good. She looks a little pale and distracted. “That means you slept well.”
She goes stiff in my arms, and pulls away. “I was up through the night, but this morning I finally slept a few solid hours. I got your text.”
I watch her pad to the living room window, and I wonder if she saw me walking through the grove. Would she think it was strange, considering a dead woman was discovered there yesterday?
“I needed fresh air to clear my head,” I offer.
“It’s dreary today,” she says, not turning. “Do you think it’ll burn off?”
“It should.”
At that, I join her at the window, watching plumes of mist tumble over the cliff. After yesterday’s chaos, when the street was packed with news vans and police cars, today promises to be peaceful. Back to normal.
In Her Shadow Page 10
