In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  Patel groans as a surfer takes a hard fall, and then he levels a humorless stare at me. “And you don’t think it’s strange that he continued paying for service for a woman who’d cheated on him, got pregnant by someone else, and broke up with him via text message?”

  The man has a point.

  After that final text to her husband was sent, Joanna seemed to disappear from the face of the earth.

  “They’ve only had two successful wave rides so far,” Patel grumbles. “Unbelievable. I bet they’re going to call it. They do that, you know. Cancel the whole thing if the waves are too rough. Don’t want another death on their hands.”

  My thoughts veer straight to Joanna, the way her body was found in the shallow grave. I feel a spike of rage, remembering that her murderer is still at large.

  Sifting through the Harrises’ call and text logs is a tedious process, and by the time I finish going over the texts from Joanna’s phone, Patel is on his third cup of coffee. The distillery erupts in cheers when someone tries to challenge the rising mountain of water. But it’s followed closely by a collective moan when the surfer takes too heavy a drop and succumbs to the power of the wave.

  “Look at this,” I say, drawing Patel’s attention from the television to my laptop screen. “There are a number of texts from Travis to Joanna and vice versa between February and the middle of July.”

  I slide the screen over to him.

  Would you and Michael like to come over next weekend?

  Are you and Michael planning on attending the conference in Seattle?

  Has Rachael called you about dinner plans?

  Patel finishes his cup and reluctantly declines a refill from the waitress. “We already know Travis and Joanna were having an affair. The fact that they were communicating shouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “But look.” I point to Joanna’s responses as I scroll through the list. “Each time, she only texted back a single word: yes or no.”

  “So she wasn’t much of a talker.”

  And just like that, he’s sucked back into the competition.

  But there has to be something more, something beneath their informal conversations. After each initial question was asked and answered, it appears they went radio silent for a few days. But they’d always chat again, repeating impersonal questions followed by terse replies.

  “On July fifteenth,” I go on, “Travis texted, ‘Has Michael talked to you about the Lennox account?’ Joanna responded quickly with ‘yes.’ That was the second to last communication she had with anyone.”

  “So what does the Lennox account have to do with—oh, look, here he goes!” Patel is enthralled, pointing at the screen. “You know, it’s crucial that these surfers focus not only on the wave they choose, but on the ones after it. They have to keep their eyes on the lineup because it’s the ones behind them that might be fatal.”

  Keep their eyes on the lineup.

  Frowning, I scan the texts again.

  “He’s going to make it.” Patel lets out a loud whooping sound as the surfer—a professional from Santa Cruz—pops up on his board and drops into what the announcer calls “the barrel.” “That’s amazing.”

  It truly is. I look up and watch in awe, captivated, as the surfer seems to glide effortlessly through the curling wall of water. And then, as the colossal wave begins to break behind him, something happens. He tumbles headfirst into the sea. His board shoots into the air behind him, flipping and twisting over the swell of water. A hush falls over the distillery. It’s as if everyone’s trying to hold his or her breath as long as the surfer. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three—he’s still underwater—four-one-thousand, five—another powerful wave follows on the heels of the first. Jet Skis can’t come to the rescue while waves this massive are breaking. They have to wait for a lull.

  “See,” Patel says, justified, “they’re pummeling him down there. He can’t catch a break to come to the surface.”

  “The surfers have to wait for a break between swells,” I put in, as something shifts in my brain. “They have to wait until the time is right before taking the risk.”

  As the surfer’s head pops up a few seconds later, the people in the distillery applaud, toasting him with house-special mimosas. And I think I might know why there was always a few days’ break between texts.

  Travis and Joanna had to wait for the coast to be clear to set up their secret rendezvous. But none of those texts had anything indicating an affair.

  “Come on,” I say, downing what’s left of my coffee. “You’ve seen enough of the competition. Let’s head over to the city and get to our appointment with Rachael Martin early. I’ve got a few questions for her.”

  RACHAEL

  What do you wear for an interview with a detective?

  Stiletto heels and a pencil skirt. Narrow, rectangular fashion glasses that sit on the end of my nose. A tight coat that doesn’t quite button in front. Yeah, that’ll do. I’m channeling Jackie O. and that curly-haired woman from CSI, and it’s perfect.

  As I parade along the sidewalk in the Marina district, my hair blowing in the breeze sweeping over the bay, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a passing window. Professional and classy, with a sexy edge. Exactly what I was going for. Checking the time on my phone, I speed my pace so I’m not late.

  When I open the door to my office, two strangers stand to greet me.

  “Good morning,” the taller one says, reaching into his pocket to pull out identification. “I’m Detective Patel, and this is Detective Shaw. Could we talk with you for a few minutes, Mrs. Martin?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Smoothing my skirt, I escort them beyond the front desk area, where I get a sideways glance from our receptionist, to my private office in back. “You’re Amanda’s husband, right?” I ask Detective Patel as I glance over my shoulder. “I see her around the neighborhood from time to time.”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “I think she might’ve mentioned you before. We love the area. Before this week, we would’ve called it a haven.”

  “I agree. But it’s tainted now, isn’t it? Our home values will probably plummet. No one wants to move to a murderer’s playground.” Gesturing to the chairs in front of my desk, I offer them comfortable seats and coffee, but both refuse. “What can I help you with?”

  “I wouldn’t go around saying Point Reina is a murderer’s playground, Mrs. Martin,” Detective Shaw says, adjusting the suit jacket over his chest as he sits back. If he weren’t questioning me about a murder, I might find him marginally attractive. He’s a little burly, with a strong, defined profile. Slightly wide-set green eyes, square jaw, and a sloping Roman nose. “It’s one murder. At the present moment we don’t have reason to think there’ll be another. Anyway, that’s not what we came here about today. We wanted to speak with you in private. To get your thoughts on a few things.”

  “Of course.” I sit on the edge of my leather-backed chair and try to calm my nerves. My heart is beginning to race, and I think I know why.

  “Would you mind if I recorded this?” Patel asks, removing a small device from the inside pocket of his coat. “For reference purposes?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Record away.”

  The anxiety that’d been tying me up in knots moments before vanishes. A weird kind of exhilaration fizzes through me at the thought of being recorded, of my words being so important that these men will be listening to them later. I feel like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Only there’s a desk between us, and I’m wearing underwear.

  “How close were you to Joanna Harris?” Patel asks, setting the device on my desk.

  “We were friends and neighbors. Our husbands worked together in the city.”

  “What about in July? Were you close with her then as well?”

  They know.<
br />
  My skin crawls, going cold, as if someone just walked over my grave. If they know my husband was having an affair with Joanna, they’re going to inquire about it. Upon discovering his infidelity, it’s true I was angry beyond anything I’d ever felt before. As any woman would be in my situation.

  It’s true I’d wished Joanna dead.

  But I’d taken it so much further, hadn’t I?

  If I tell them the truth about Travis and Joanna, about my hatred near the end, I’m going to be a suspect. Her body was found across the street from my house, for Christ’s sake. They’re going to assume I killed her.

  I don’t know why, but I hadn’t thought about this angle until now. I hadn’t seen things from their point of view.

  “Of course we were close with both the Harrises,” I lie, forcing a smile. But when they don’t smile back, mine falters. “I mean, once I started working here, Joanna and I didn’t see each other as much, but that’s not because we didn’t want to. I was simply so busy, my priorities refocused.”

  For a split second, I wonder if I should come clean about their affair, before the detectives ask. That way it won’t look like I’m hiding something, as if I’m guilty.

  While I’m still contemplating which is better, Shaw speaks, his voice a low rumble that’s oddly comforting. “When was the last time you saw Joanna?”

  “Sometime in early summer. July, I think. At Pilates.”

  “An exercise class? Where?”

  My heart starts to race. “Studio Balance. In Half Moon Bay.”

  Something flickers in Shaw’s eyes. “So the two of you took classes together?”

  I nod. “Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. Nine o’clock.”

  “Do you still attend classes?” Shaw asks after a pause.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  I can’t tell him the truth. Not about this. I’ve already said too much. If I go any further, he’s going to leave here and head straight to Studio Balance and talk to Mandy. And then life as I know it will end.

  “I switched to Bikram Yoga. I take afternoon classes at the place on Polk Street.” And they can look into that as much as they want because it’s the most honest thing I’ve said so far, aside from my cell number. “Is this what you really wanted to talk to me about? My exercise regimen? Because I can give you any details you want, but I must say I’m confused as to why this is relevant to your investigation.”

  “Do you know Mandy McKnight?” Detective Patel asks. I’m starting to dislike him.

  “Yeah, of course. She’s the owner of the Pilates studio, and one of the instructors.”

  “How well do you know Ms. McKnight? Were you friends outside of Pilates?”

  Where are they going with this? “No—I mean, we never hung out. I don’t know her well at all, but I can tell you her swan dive is amazing.” When they stare blankly, I say, “You know, the Pilates move? The—oh, never mind. The only times I’ve ever seen Mandy were at the studio. Is she a suspect or something?”

  “We’re merely compiling information, Mrs. Martin.” Shaw pulls out a notebook from his jacket pocket, flips open to a page somewhere in the middle. “Do you happen to recall if she was pregnant last spring?”

  “Mandy? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you,” Shaw says. “This is extremely helpful, Mrs. Martin.”

  “Anything I can do.”

  “Actually, there might be something more you can do for us.” He flips a few more notebook pages. He’s making me nervous now. “We’ve spent some time going over the Harrises’ phone records. There were calls made from Joanna Harris’s number to yours almost every day until July.”

  “That sounds about right. We were friends.”

  Until…

  I can’t even finish the thought without feeling as though every light inside me has dimmed. I pray to God the detectives don’t see it.

  “Do you know any reason why Joanna would be in close contact with your husband?” Shaw fires, straight to my heart.

  A million thoughts stream through my head at once, loud and scattered like firecrackers. If I tell Detective Shaw about Travis and Joanna, I’m going to paint a target on Travis’s back. These guys are going to meet with him next and probe him about the relationship, and who knows what their conclusions might be? They might say the affair with Joanna drove him mad. They might even throw around a term like “crime of passion.” Michael will find out, too. It’s inevitable. Travis will undoubtedly lose his job.

  I already thought the dynamic among the three of us was bizarre.

  I was wrong. It would have nothing on the coming storm.

  “No,” I lie. “Not at all.”

  “So you wouldn’t be able to explain phone activity between Joanna Harris and your husband?”

  “Well,” I falter, “there might’ve been a few times when he called Michael and didn’t get an answer, so Travis would call Joanna instead. But only to relay a business message, you see.”

  They exchange weary glances, and I know I’ve made a terrible misstep. Tears burn my eyes.

  “So you can’t think of any reason Travis would want to talk to Joanna personally?” Shaw asks gently. I wouldn’t trust this guy as far as I could throw him. “In matters not concerning business?”

  “Well, of course they were friends as well, Detective.” I lift my hands palm up, as if to show I have nothing to hide. “We all were. I’ve called Michael hundreds of times. Would you like to check my phone records to verify that as well?”

  A long, hard pause, and then, “We might, yes. Thank you for the offer.”

  Goddamn it.

  I have to watch myself. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “One more thing.” Shaw leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  Staring into his beady green eyes, I realize he’s the shrewd one of the two—the one who scratches beneath the surface, determined to find the thing that’s hidden. Patel’s the ambitious one, the guy on the lookout for a promotion, the one who buys his wife a flashy Jaguar to parade through our neighborhood. He’s probably cheating on her. Wants to keep her happy, so she won’t question why he’s spending so much time “at the office.” That’s the way Travis works. I never received prettier flowers or more luxurious jewelry than last summer, when he was sleeping with Joanna behind my back. But Shaw…I can’t pinpoint his motives. I can’t get a read on him. He’s the one we need to be wary of.

  “I was hoping you could clarify something for me,” he goes on.

  “If I can.” I smile, to show I’m on their side.

  “There were times when you and Joanna seemed to speak via text or phone every day, and other periods when activity was sparse. Especially in July, around her approximate date of death. Your phone interactions seemed to shorten, if they occurred at all.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I say, suddenly feeling tired of this whole charade. “I can’t remember exact dates and times.”

  Sweat forms on my brow as Shaw looks up from his notebook and stares, unwavering.

  “Mrs. Martin, when I said we’d discovered ‘phone activity’ between your husband and Joanna Harris, I didn’t specify that they were phone calls. That was a jump you made. As it happens, we can’t find a record of any calls between them. What we have discovered are frequent text messages between Joanna and your husband from February through July.”

  My head spins. They texted frequently? The lying, cheating—

  “Can you give any other explanation as to why they might’ve been in such close and constant contact?” Shaw asks mildly.

  “There are only two people who could answer that question, Detective.” I’m fuming inside, struggling to formulate words that aren’t vulgar. �
��And you know where to find both of them. Are we finished?”

  COLLEEN

  It’s been two days, but I’m still thinking about how Michael said we could use the nursery for our baby if I wanted to. As if I would ever want to put our child in the crib he’d planned to use for his child with Joanna. The more I think about it, the more disturbing that thought is, and I know I need to voice my feelings about it. The stress of all this is really getting to me. I felt jittery for most of yesterday, probably because I haven’t eaten much. I simply can’t force myself to eat from a menu chosen by his dead wife.

  But I can’t keep quiet any longer about the nursery.

  He has to get rid of it. Clear everything out. Keeping Joanna’s and the baby’s room that way—like it’s some kind of shrine to the both of them—is sick. Seriously disturbed. He has to understand how it’s making me feel, like I’m second rate compared to what he had before. Nothing but a stand-in.

  Joanna’s dead. We know that now. It’s time to clear out her room and the baby’s room and put all of that behind us. It’s time to focus on us, on our future. And I’m so sick and tired of feeling like I have to fight to be seen in his home, and in his life.

  I’m done.

  After paying my cab fare, I approach Harris Financial, tightening the belt of my trench coat around my waist. The weather is wicked, rainy and cold, and there’s no sign of its letting up. Wind catches the door, holding it open as I squeeze inside. Using all my strength, I pull the door closed, but a rogue blast of frigid air sweeps up my bare legs, instantly freezing me. I would’ve worn pants, or something more comfortable, but this is the first time I’ve gone back to the office since quitting. I want to show Michael that I understand what it takes to be the wife of a successful business owner. And I won’t embarrass him by coming into the office looking anything less than professional.

  The heels are killing me, though. Either the shoes have shrunk since I put them on last, or my feet are swelling. I don’t want to acknowledge the obvious reason, so I pretend I’m not in pain, and strut into the building.