I log every detail of our conversation in my head. I don’t take notes, but as long as I’m focused on the details, my mind won’t slip back to Karen, and I won’t feel like the world has gone dark. Wind picks up behind us, slamming into the cliff and gusting between the trees. It’s cold, even for January. Fishing my phone from my pocket, I check the weather app. Forty-six degrees. With the wind howling at my back, it feels like thirty. I left my gloves in the car.
“Lived there long?” I ask, returning my phone to my pocket.
“Ten years.”
“And you walk dogs through the grove every morning?”
“Usually.” Sighing, her gaze shifts mournfully from one deputy to another as they sift through the mud. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
“What makes you think that?”
“When one of the deputies was talking to me earlier, I saw—well, they brought up a hand. She—or I suppose it could be a he—was wearing red nail polish.”
I eye her carefully and realize she’s much younger than I thought. Her eyes are bright blue and sharp, her skin smooth. “What do you do for a living, Ms. Rhys?”
“I run a daycare out of my home Monday through Friday, mostly in the afternoons when parents can’t pick up their children from school.”
“For families in this area?”
She nods. “A few, though most of my parents live in Half Moon Bay.”
I let my gaze wander through the grove, lingering on a few low-hanging boughs and the shadows darkening around turns in the path ahead. In the distance, fat waves crash against the shore with muted booms. I can count the time between the swells. One…two…three…boom.
“Ms. Rhys, have you ever noticed any suspicious activity in the grove?”
She shakes her head. “No, never. Well, besides the body Rufus discovered, of course.”
“Just one more question, Ms. Rhys, and then I’ll have someone drive you down to the station.”
She watches me unhappily.
“Did you walk through the grove yesterday with the same dogs?”
“I did.”
“On the same route?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone else walking around at the same time?”
Lips twisting, she chews over my question. “There are always people walking around here, Detective. It’s a beautiful path.”
“Yes, but I’d like to know specifics. Can you offer the names of anyone in the neighborhood who frequents the grove?”
“Well yes, I suppose. Don from the distillery was sitting on that bench over there yesterday, the one overlooking the ocean. He’s always there before work, having his coffee with a view. The new woman staying with Michael Harris—he lives right over there”—she points through the trees—“came through yesterday too. She had a book in her hand, so I assume she spent the morning reading on the beach.”
“Anyone else?”
She shakes her head.
“That’ll be all for now.” I extend my hand. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Rhys, it was a pleasure talking with you.”
After ensuring Sarah Rhys receives a proper escort to the station to record her official statement, I shove my hands into my pockets and turn back to the scene. Bones, partially decomposed flesh, and thick clumps of mud consume what’s left of my day.
It’s six o’clock in the evening by the time we’re finished.
The scent of dirt and decay stings my nose, and I know I’m not going to be able to eat for days. There are times I don’t know why I do this, why I chose to go into homicide. But then I get handed a case like this one, where there’s a body with no identification, and a killer on the loose somewhere smugly assuming he or she has gotten away with murder, and the thought of it won’t leave me alone. My palms start to itch. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Toxicology and the coroner’s report should be back in about a week. Identification sometime in there as well. Then, the real work begins, hunting the hunter.
When Patel and I get back into the cruiser, I pick up the cube and shift a few squares into place.
COLLEEN
“You feeling all right?” Michael asks as we walk through the garden and over the stepping-stones leading from Ravenwood to the Martins’ glass monstrosity. “You haven’t said much since I came home from work.”
“I’m fine.”
I can’t stop thinking about the body pulled out of the ground across the street. I’d told Michael about it, but he didn’t seem shocked or interested in talking about it at all. In fact, the only thing he’d offered was some mumbled response about keeping our noses out of it so the police could do their job. His nonchalance struck me as strange, but maybe I’m reading too much into it. Once I find my footing in a daily routine, things will feel more normal, and I won’t have to overthink anything.
Tonight the air is bitter cold, especially when the wind picks up, but buttery-warm lights illuminate the Martin home like a beacon.
“How’d you sleep last night?” Michael asks.
“Fine.”
“Didn’t seem like it. You tossed and turned for hours.”
“I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“It’s more than last night,” he goes on. “I don’t think you’ve been sleeping well since you found out you were pregnant.”
“That’s not true. Remember how I crashed for hours yesterday morning, after you left for work?”
He kinks an eyebrow. “So you’ve slept well once in the last five months. That’s your defense?”
“I’ve been worried about things—the pregnancy—going smoothly. You know that.” And now, I’m in his wife’s home. It hasn’t helped my anxiety. “I’ll sleep normally again eventually.”
Last night, shadows in corners seemed to move and shift as if someone was hiding in them. And sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flurry of movement. A flash of something dark darting across the hallway from one bedroom to another. When I looked, nothing was there. The more the night wore on, the more I started to hallucinate. Michael and I didn’t make love, either. First night in the house, and he didn’t even try to touch me.
“I think being in Ravenwood will take some getting used to, that’s all,” I go on. “You know how it is, when you sleep in a new place.” I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to sleeping in a bed Michael slept in with Joanna. “It should start to feel like home soon.”
“I hope so. Insomnia could affect the baby.”
Lowering my gaze, I curl my fingers around the appetizer tray. Apple cider beignets. When I returned from my walk this morning, I didn’t think Dean would have taken on the headache of shopping and cooking at the last minute for Rachael’s special request. I was wrong. Apparently all it took was Michael calling him to make the request, and Dean was all too happy to make one of Joanna’s favorite treats.
“Maybe we should talk to Dr. Souza,” Michael suggests, “to see if exhaustion and mood changes are normal for this stage of the pregnancy.”
“Every pregnancy is different. There is no normal.”
“I’m concerned, that’s all. The last time—”
And then he stops. Just like that. Mid-sentence, moments before he compares this pregnancy to the last one, with her. He clears his throat as if he’d meant to stop, as if some random piece of sand flew off the beach and lodged in his throat at the opportune moment. I know better, and it burns me inside.
Joanna’s here, even now, on our way to a dinner party next door.
She might as well still be living in Ravenwood. If I’m curled up on the couch, staring out the window at the cypress grove, a whisper in the back of my head says this was her view, and she had it first. When I’m taking a bath and slipping underwater, I close my eyes and get the feeling she’s lo
oming over the tub. Late at night, when I’m lying in bed, I think I hear footsteps creeping down the hall, softly scuffing the floorboards. Ravenwood creaks when the wind howls through it, and I can swear it’s calling her name. Even it knows I’m an imposter. I thought moving my things into Ravenwood would’ve solved everything. It was supposed to fill the void in Michael’s world that Joanna left. When I curl up on the couch, my blanket is the one we now use to warm our bodies. My clothes are the ones filling the empty rods. And late at night, I’m the one he draws close.
But, according to Samara, Michael insisted everything else in Ravenwood remain the same. Exactly as Joanna had wanted it. Same meals. Same cleaning schedule. “Minimal change,” he’d told her.
I’m already eating her favorite meals, bathing in her tub, and making love to her husband. Do I have to sleep in her sheets too?
I find myself exhausted from the stress of it all. It’s no wonder I can’t sleep.
“What I meant to say was, it wouldn’t hurt to call the doctor,” Michael corrects himself, much too late.
“I’ll call in the morning.”
“I think that’s best. Can never be too careful.”
As we cross the driveway, I peer through the glass, into the privacy of the Martin home. A streak of wickedness rushes through me as I drink in the details, feeling like a voyeur, but in an acceptable way. Because if they didn’t want anyone peeking inside, they’d invest in curtains.
The house is spacious and immaculately clean, light bouncing off the bright white cabinets in the kitchen. Rachael is curled up on the white couch, a glass of red wine in her right hand, a magazine open on her lap. I can’t see Travis, but Lord knows it’s not for lack of light. It’s as if God kept every inch of the earth dark at night except for 200 Cypress Street. That house and the creatures inside, He must’ve decided, were so glorious they deserved to be permanently bathed in light.
Michael’s finger hovers over the doorbell. “You ready?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, but my stomach aches.
I thought I could handle Rachael’s snide remarks and her references to Michael and Joanna’s relationship. But now, standing on her doorstep, I just don’t think I can keep up the charade.
Every time I look at Rachael, I see what I should be, and what I’m not. I see Joanna’s friend, not mine.
I suppose I could always stay for dinner and then say I’m not feeling well. No one is going to question a pregnant woman’s motives for heading home and crawling into bed. On second thought, if I chickened out, I’d be going back alone, to stare at the ceiling. Michael would probably stay with them. And I’d inevitably drive myself crazy wondering what was going on next door.
“Have you met Travis?” Michael asks, jabbing the doorbell.
“Maybe in passing at the office, but not formally. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup or anything.”
He laughs tightly. “That’s an odd thing to say.”
“It’s the truth.” I pause, listening for footsteps on the other side of the door. “Hey, I think we should come up with something to say that alerts the other we’re ready to leave. Something discreet.”
“We haven’t even walked in the door, and you’re already planning our exit?” He turns to me then, his skin ghostly white in the glare of the porch light. “Is there a problem?”
“No, nothing’s wrong, I was—”
The door swings open, cutting our conversation short. I force a smile, though my insides are eating at themselves. Rachael is standing in the doorway, one hand clutching the delicate stem of the wine glass, the other on the door handle. She’s wearing black slacks, a white sweater that scoops down deep in front, and a shade of blood-red lipstick that accentuates the plumpness of her mouth.
“Welcome,” she says, backing into the room, extending her hand. “Come in, come in. Colleen, you look gorgeous, as always.” She wrangles me into an embrace, kissing one cheek and then the other, and I suddenly feel sicker than before. “Michael, darling, always good to see you.”
She hugs and kisses him on both cheeks too, as I suppose is customary. But I don’t like it. She lingers too long. Squeezes his shoulders a little tighter than she did mine. Once inside, I take in the grandeur of their home and struggle to keep my jaw closed. The entry is endless and tiled, pure white with a glossy finish. A grand piano is in the office off to the right of the entry. On the wall in front of us, an ornate wrought iron cross and an oversized abstract painting splotched with crimson and orange command attention. Directly ahead, a staircase zigzags up to the second floor. I step down a single stair to a sunken living room with a deep mahogany hardwood floor and a sea of snow-white furniture.
“Here, let me take that for you,” Rachael says, stealing the tray from my hands. “Are they the beignets I asked for?”
“Dean came back for another hour this morning to make them for you.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m pleasantly surprised he agreed to it.” A wry smile turns up the corner of her mouth as she glances at Michael. “Travis is upstairs, but he should be down in a minute. Here, let me take your coats.”
She’s only gone for a moment before she returns as bubbly as ever. “Drinks?”
“I’ll help myself,” Michael says, and heads straight for the bar separating the living space from the kitchen. It’s stunning, with a hanging rack for glasses, shelves of liquor along the wall, and droplights that illuminate it all. “I can’t believe he bought it,” Michael says. “I told him not to.”
“Bought what?” I’m at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other on my belly. “The scotch?” I press, when he doesn’t answer.
He holds it up, ogling its label, stroking its sides as if it’s a baby who’s just been born. “It’s the King George V Edition of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. It’s six hundred dollars a bottle.”
I exhale heavily because I know what this means. They’re going to break the bottle open, drink until it’s dry, and I’ll only have two choices: go home early alone, or stay and babysit a drunk.
Neither of those sound particularly pleasant.
“You have a beautiful home, Rachael,” I say, joining her in the kitchen as she refills her glass. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
“Heavens, no.” She slides a glass of ice water over the island toward me. “Travis did. He’s got an incredible eye.”
Before I can process what she’s said, and the image of Travis that’s taking form in my head, I hear footfalls above.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” a raspy voice calls. “I was cleaning my new toy.”
Michael turns, then freezes. And then I turn and gasp. A man clad entirely in black is bounding down the stairs.
He’s holding a gun.
I stagger back against the bar. No one else seems to notice the air go cold. My heart hammers in my ears as he reaches the bottom, clutching the gun to his chest. His eyes meet mine.
“Can’t believe you got it,” Michael says. “No wonder we’re celebrating. Cheers to the new Glock.”
He holds up his glass and takes a drink as the stranger who must be Travis drops the gun to his side and extends his hand toward mine.
“You must be Colleen. I’m Travis. Pleasure to finally meet you.”
It’s only then that I get a good look at him. His clothes are expensively simple, much like his home. But his skin is a different story. A display of colorful tattoos wraps around both arms from biceps to wrist. I can’t exactly make out the shapes, and I don’t want to stare too long, though splashes of blue catch my eye. His hair is black as night, wild, and toppled over the buzzed-short sides.
A spark of recognition burns through me. Yes, I’d seen Travis pass by my desk on the way to Michael’s office a dozen or more times. He never stopped to ask if Michael was in. Never gave me a
second look, actually. He was always dressed in suits, his hair tamed, tattoos covered. A far cry from the guy standing in front of me now.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, shaking his hand. “You scared me. With the gun, I thought—God, I don’t know what I thought.”
“That I was coming downstairs to kill everyone?” he says, his tone going flat. “Not today.”
After a long, awkward silence, he laughs, and Michael joins in.
As my smile falters, Rachael comes into the room and smacks him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Would you quit scaring our guests? It’s poor timing, isn’t it? The events of this morning have everyone on edge.”
I’m glad that I’m not the only one anxious about the corpse being found across the street. Local channels were flooded with stories about the discovery all day. Normally, I would have switched off the television and gone for a walk, but those detectives were marching around the scene like ants.
“Have you heard anything else about the murder?” Rachael asks. “I wonder who the woman is. I don’t remember there being any missing persons in the area.”
“How do you know it’s a woman?” Travis probes.
“Sarah Rhys says one of the detectives confirmed it.”
“And you think she’s local simply because the killer decided to stash her body across the street?” Travis kinks his head, glaring. “That’s kind of a leap, don’t you think?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, she could be anyone then. Someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe she was a marathon runner training in the city, and ran through a rough neighborhood. Or maybe—and wouldn’t this be perfect—it was someone who had it coming. Oh!” She bounces up and down on her toes. “What about that young nanny who worked for the Pinkertons down the street? Kira, that was her name. She was sleeping with Paul for months, right beneath Bernadette’s nose, and quit out of the blue last summer. Bernadette might’ve snapped. Could’ve been her.”
“We could be speculating all night,” Michael says. “And it won’t get us any closer to figuring it out, so what’s the point?”
In Her Shadow Page 7