In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  My brain begins to swim with the new information. “Does anybody else know? Michael or Dean?”

  “No, Joanna made me swear not to tell anyone. Only reason she told me was because she needed someone to drive her to the appointments. But I probably should say something now, shouldn’t I? Now that she’s…gone?”

  “If you think it’ll help them find the murderer, yes,” I offer, “because if you know something and keep it to yourself, they might think you had something to do with her death.”

  And now that Samara has told me, I should go to the police with the information, too.

  “I’ll consider it,” Samara says. “Anyway, all that matters is that God was with Joanna in the end.”

  “From what Michael tells me—I mean, what I heard him tell the police—Joanna was an atheist.”

  “She was. But the counselor changed her.” She removes a few books and, scowling, replaces them somewhere a few shelves lower. “By the end, Joanna was starting to believe in religion. It helped her heal.”

  Yes, it’s nice that God forgives everyone. Including liars and adulterers.

  I keep that nugget to myself.

  “How are you holding up in all of this?” I ask, trying to show Samara I’m compassionate and caring—and that maybe I can be as close to her as Joanna was.

  “This whole tragedy has been terribly rough on me,” she admits, softening slightly. “And there are times when I’m overwhelmed with grief, like Mr. Harris.”

  Is Michael truly overwhelmed with grief? The blowout with Travis was the first time I’d seen him lose control since we heard the news—but that was anger, not sadness.

  “There’s only one thought that gets me through each day,” she continues, standing on a chair to reach the highest shelf. “One thing that keeps me going.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, because I know she expects me to.

  “Joanna won’t be alone long. Everyone dies someday.” She glances at me, and the malice in her eyes makes me rest my hand against the swell of my belly. “Everyone—including you.”

  DETECTIVE SHAW

  Friday.

  Patel’s deadline for arresting Michael Harris.

  Thankfully, he’s decided to hold off. He can no longer deny that there are too many wild cards in this case. Too many things we need to take into account. Mandy McKnight’s revelation about Travis and Joanna’s affair. The strange brevity of the texts between them. The possibility that Dean might’ve been having an affair with Joanna, too. Michael’s name should top the suspect list, but there are other moving parts to this puzzle.

  “We’ll know more Sunday,” Patel decided. “After the toxicology report comes back.”

  He’s banking on the fact that a large amount of Vicodin and Valium will show up in Joanna Harris’s bloodstream. If that happens, it’ll be difficult not to think Harris had something to do with his wife’s murder. But if Patel’s wrong, and the test shows she’s clean, what conclusion will he draw next? Will he still believe Joanna was killed by her husband? I’m not sure.

  Personally, I’m not surprised to hear about their extramarital activities. I knew the Harrises were hiding things—doesn’t everyone?—and now their secrets are coming to light.

  I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours turning my attention from Joanna’s husband to Travis and Dean. Although we don’t have concrete evidence showing that Dean and Joanna were having an affair, the tug in my gut warns me that Dean and Joanna’s relationship was more than platonic. We’ve received court orders to release their phone records too. All Patel needed was to prove that their phone records were relevant and material to our investigation. It wasn’t difficult to do. And now we’ve put tails on both of them. It’s critical to the investigation that they don’t know we’re closing in. We want both men to proceed with everything as normal, so when they slip—and eventually, they all do—we’ve got them.

  Rolling my chair closer to my desk, I shake the computer mouse to bring the desktop to life, and open windows that’ll reveal the phone carrier information once more. I create one segment for each of the twisted personalities on that street: Michael, Dean, Travis, Rachael, and Joanna.

  With a frustrated sigh, I rest my head in my hands and go over the information again. And again.

  Phone calls or texts between Dean Lewis and Joanna Harris are nonexistent. All contact with the chef was made through Michael’s phone. Looks like Dean was another aspect of Joanna’s life Harris controlled—or attempted to. Likewise, there are no calls between Travis and Joanna. But we knew that already.

  I must be missing something.

  Tapping my fingers against the mouse, I scan the text messages between Joanna and Travis.

  Would you and Michael like to come over next weekend?

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

  What was so important about those trivial questions? I double-check the time stamps.

  An idea sparks.

  Rather than studying texts from Joanna and Travis, I turn my attention to those between Travis and his wife. I note the days Rachael told him she had to work late. At least once a week for the entire length of the spring season, there was some piece of property that needed to be shown in the evening. Pulling up a split screen, I cross-check those against the dates Travis texted Joanna.

  They match up perfectly.

  On at least a dozen different occasions, Rachael texted her husband telling him she wouldn’t be home until late. Minutes—sometimes seconds—later, he’d text Joanna and ask her a seemingly innocent question.

  Has Rachael called you about dinner plans?

  Each time, Joanna had texted back a single word: yes or no.

  After that, they didn’t communicate until the next day Rachael had to work late. Not a brilliant code, but one that apparently kept their affair hidden for months.

  “Sneaky bastards,” I mutter, studying the timeline.

  Their final secret rendezvous was on July fifteenth, the night the police were dispatched to Ravenwood. Mandy McKnight claims she heard Rachael threaten to kill Joanna the next morning at Pilates, which was the last known sighting of our victim. Had Rachael caught Joanna and Travis in the act?

  “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” I murmur, pulling up as much information on Rachael as I can.

  I skim through her history at a breakneck pace, sliding screens aside and expanding others. Rachael Mary-Magdalene Martin. Born and raised in Sausalito. Parents separated young. Apartment lease filed in the city when she was eighteen years old. Arrested at nineteen for driving while intoxicated. Warrant for failure to appear in court. License revoked and reinstated twice over the next few years. Married to Travis Martin in St. Patrick’s Catholic Church on Mission Street.

  Catholic church.

  Rachael Mary-Magdalene Martin.

  Exhausted as I am, I feel my adrenaline starting to spike. I fish my phone out of my pocket and call Patel.

  “It may be just a hunch,” I say when he picks up on the first ring, “but we need a deputy tailing both of the Martins.”

  COLLEEN

  After my talk with Samara in the library, I spend the next twenty minutes putting on a comfortable outfit—leggings with a cute tunic—and styling my hair. I’m hyper-aware of movement in my stomach, but haven’t felt anything since my lunch with Travis. I’m sure the baby’s fine, but I wish he or she would move more.

  As soon as the baby’s born, Michael and I will be linked forever, and Joanna should be gone from our lives completely. I won’t have to wonder if I’m doing everything as well as she did, because we’ll be in new territory. She never got to experience being a mother, after all, so everything I do will be my way. I’m hoping Michael will let us hire a new staff as soon as the investigation is over.
Dean and Samara might be the reason Michael can’t shake Joanna’s memory. I won’t have them turn Michael against me.

  I grab the car key and exit through the back door. The Lexus is waiting for me in the back driveway, a glittery shade of the most beautiful blue I’ve ever seen. It’s been so long since I’ve been behind the wheel of a car, I don’t even know if I remember how to drive.

  “God,” I mumble, pressing the unlock button, “please don’t let it have a manual transmission.”

  It’s automatic, thank the Lexus Lords. Sliding inside, I’m swaddled in the rich, strong smell of expensive leather. The air is stuffy—definitely not the fresh scent of a new car—but the seat cradles my body comfortably. There isn’t much room between the seat and the steering wheel. Whoever sat here last must’ve been short. Reaching to the floorboard between my legs, I search for the adjustment.

  My fingers bump into something small and round, and send it rolling over the floor mat. Without thinking, I pick it up and turn the tube over in my palm. Lipstick. Giorgio Armani Rouge Ecstasy. The color? “Diva.”

  The air in the car becomes sweltering and too thin to breathe. I pop the top off the lipstick. The color is bright red, as a diva would demand. And the tip is indented from being molded against someone’s lip.

  Joanna.

  Barely breathing, I brush my thumb over the angled tip, and wonder how many times she held this tube in her hand and pressed it against her lips. I smash the waxy film between my forefinger and thumb and smear the color over my skin. Her lipstick wasn’t on the passenger seat or hidden away in the console. No, it’d been left on the driver’s side.

  This car was hers.

  And suddenly I don’t know whether to cry or scream or beat my head against the steering wheel until I can’t think about Joanna anymore. It’s too much. She’s saturated everything in Michael’s life. Even the air in this car is stale because she breathed it first. I shove the lipstick in the glove compartment and close my eyes.

  Holding back the impending hysterics, I slam the door closed and crank the key in the ignition. The car whirs to life, purring as I put it into gear, circle the drive, and head out through the tunnel of trees. I can almost envision Joanna’s manicured fingers curling over the steering wheel as mine are now. I can picture her glancing into the rearview mirror, checking on the baby that’d be buckled there.

  Every minute of the drive into Half Moon Bay is torturous. I keep measuring my movements against how Joanna might’ve driven this car. When Dr. Souza’s building appears in a complex on the right, I almost miss it.

  Parked in a spot close to the entrance, I tilt my head back and take a few deep breaths.

  Joanna’s gone.

  It’s my time now, to focus on our baby.

  Leaning over, I jerk the glove compartment open and steal the lipstick from inside. And as I glance into the sun-visor mirror, I smooth the color over my lips. I won’t be afraid of overstepping my boundaries or stepping on her memory. This is my life now.

  Diva is a great shade. I think I’ll wear it better.

  I pucker at my reflection and toss the lipstick into my purse.

  With newfound confidence, I exit Joanna’s car and enter the ob-gyn’s office. Expectant mothers in all stages of pregnancy fill nearly every chair. I can’t wait until I’m like that woman across from me, full-bellied and glowing radiantly. Or that one, in the corner, who looks as if she’s about to pop any second. I’m deep in a Cosmopolitan article titled “Keeping Your Man Happy” when the television above the reception desk catches my eye.

  Melissa Mendes’s face fills the screen. “The investigation into the Point Reina murder is in full swing. Detectives have brought in Joanna Harris’s husband, Michael, and his new girlfriend, Colleen Roper, for questioning.”

  “Oh no,” I say on an exhale as I lean forward, heart racing.

  The footage cuts to Detective Shaw. “We’re working closely with Michael Harris,” he says dryly, “who is just as eager to discover who killed his wife as we are.”

  Have they connected the dots yet? Do they know Travis had more than enough motive to kill her? And that Rachael did, too? I should stop by the station after the appointment and tell them what I’ve learned. The sooner this is put to rest, the better.

  The film cuts back to Melissa Mendes. “We’re keeping a close eye on the developments in this case as the truth about Michael and Joanna Harris’s marriage unfolds.”

  The chipper reporter summarizes the basics about the case until my name is called and I’m weighed in. It’s not long before the doctor knocks on the door and lets himself in.

  “Colleen,” he says, closing the door behind him. He’s forty-something, thin as a rail, glasses perched halfway down his narrow nose. “How are you holding up?”

  “Good,” I answer immediately, shifting my weight on the exam table. “I felt the baby move on Thursday, and it was amazing.”

  He frowns. “No, I mean, how are you holding up with everything else? From what I hear, you and your husband have been under a lot of pressure lately.”

  How does my doctor know Michael? He’s never accompanied me to any appointments. And the medical records are under my name, not his. It’s from the news, I realize with chagrin. Our faces have probably been featured on most news stations around the country.

  “Oh,” I say, feeling my shoulders slump. But a part of me is pleased he assumes Michael and I are married. “You heard about the investigation.”

  “Hard not to.”

  “I suppose everyone knows by now.” He stares blankly at me, and I realize he wants me to continue. “We’ll be fine. Everything should die down in a few months.”

  I wince when I hear my words. Poor choice. Stupid of me.

  “Have you been sleeping?” he asks, checking my folder.

  “It’s getting better, but on the whole, not much. I get so tired at night, I can’t help but crash on the couch. And I can’t seem to find the energy to do, well, anything.”

  I mean that I don’t have energy for sex, but I’m not sure if he picks up my subtlety.

  “Fatigue is common in the first trimester, though it can continue through the entire pregnancy.” He hugs the folder against his chest and nudges his glasses up his nose. “It’s possible that hormonal changes might be responsible for the exhaustion you’re feeling. Iron-deficiency anemia can also cause fatigue, but as long as you’re still taking your iron supplement, you should be fine there. We’ll do a test that’ll monitor the level of iron in your blood, along with a handful of others that are routine at this point. Those should give you some answers, though I’m not concerned. If you’re feeling anxious or stressed, that can also cause you to be overwhelmed and exhausted at the end of the day.”

  “I don’t know why a murder investigation revolving around my boyfriend would make me anxious or stressed,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “Ah, your boyfriend. Pardon my mistake earlier. I’m not sure why I assumed you were married.” He doesn’t smile back. “Have you talked to him about how you’re feeling?”

  I pause too long, and I fear he sees through me. “Not much. This is affecting him too. He’s having a hard time.”

  Dr. Souza nods. “I imagine the grief would be unbearable.”

  Grief. There’s that word again. I suppose Michael must be grieving for Joanna, but the only time I saw him shed tears over her was the first day we spoke with the detectives.

  “Have you been nauseous?” Dr. Souza asks.

  “No, thank heavens. Not since the beginning of the first trimester.”

  “That’s good. Have you had any spotting since your last appointment?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All of that is wonderful news, Colleen.” He pulls a rolling cart from the corner and lets it rest beside the bed. A large
machine with a screen fills the width of the cart. “Why don’t you lie down?”

  I do as instructed and pull up my shirt, grinning. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. He squeezes a tube filled with cool gel over my stomach, then goes to work smearing it around with the wand.

  “Michael have to work today?” he asks. I guess Michael has been in the headlines so much lately, everyone feels they can call him by his first name.

  I nod, watching the screen for signs of our baby. I see black-and-white splotches, but no shapes that make sense.

  “It’s too bad he couldn’t make it,” Dr. Souza says.

  At that, I feel my smile drop. He presses a button on the machine. I hear a muffled thwump-thwump-thwump, and my heart leaps.

  “Is that it?”

  “Your baby’s heartbeat. Yes.”

  Tears well in my eyes. I wish Michael were here to see this, to experience it with me. It’s a miracle. It’s everything. And he’s missing it.

  “There is your baby,” Dr. Souza says, pressing gently on my stomach with the wand. “It’s a good size, growing nicely. There’s the heart. Everything looks great so far.”

  He explains the phases of our baby’s development as he presses buttons on the machine, snapping photos and sliding the wand around. But I can’t take my eyes off the grainy image—my baby. There’s the head and stomach. Is that an arm or leg? A tiny circle—its heart—flutters. My chest blooms with warmth. I’m so happy, so in love with this moment, but still, Michael’s missing.

  Someone bangs on the door, and a nurse pushes her head inside. “Doctor, there’s someone here to see…”

  Her voice fades as the door swings open.

  Michael rushes inside, his eyes wide and worried. “Did I miss it?”

  I smile, tears rolling down my cheeks now. “No, you didn’t miss anything. You’re just in time. But what are you doing here? I thought you had to work.”