In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  “What do you think?” Patel asks me in the break room at the station, when we stop to get some coffee.

  “About Harris? I think he looked genuinely shocked.”

  “He could be acting,” he says. Michael is sitting at Patel’s desk, his long body slumped and miserable. “Or the trauma could’ve blocked the murder from his mind. We’ve dealt with dissociative amnesia before.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Damn, I wish I could pick Karen’s brain. Every so often, I’d consult her on difficult cases. She always had a gift for separating the guilty from the innocent. I relied on the cut-and-dried facts—sometimes to a fault—but she would follow her gut, and it never led her astray.

  “What do you make of the new girlfriend?” Patel fills two mugs of coffee.

  “Not sure.” I take one of the mugs from his hand. “I’ll take her. You take the grieving husband.”

  I escort Colleen through to the room in back, while Patel keeps Harris at his desk near the front. Closing the door behind her, I motion for her to take a seat at a table, and she obeys, thanking me as I offer her the coffee. She’s very pretty. Without makeup, she’s very pale.

  “Do you have decaf?” she asks, and my attention instinctively shifts to her stomach. Baggy sweater. Stretch pants.

  I wonder if she’s pregnant.

  “Sure,” I say, and get her what she’s requested.

  And then, as is routine, I click on the recorder to document our conversation. Patel will be recording the one with Harris. First, I note the time and date. “What’s your full name?” I ask, getting the basics out of the way.

  “Colleen Leigh Roper.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Arcata, California, originally. But I’ve lived in San Francisco since I was eighteen.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Quite the age difference. Harris is thirty-eight. You can’t help judging a wealthy businessman who dates a much younger woman—his secretary, no less. Is it because those men are searching for someone who is inherently inferior, someone who won’t challenge them? Joanna was approaching her thirty-fifth birthday. Something tells me she was more headstrong than the pretty, nervous young woman in front of me.

  “How long have you and Mr. Harris been dating?”

  “Since August.” Her voice is soft.

  Five months, I note.

  “How’d you meet?”

  “I heard his company was hiring. At the end of July I came in to apply for a secretarial position, and by the end of August, we were dating. Then, out of the blue”—she caresses her stomach, and smiles—“we were pregnant.”

  “I had no idea,” I lie. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Her cheeks warm with a pink blush. “We’re very excited.”

  The fact that Harris had impregnated another woman while still married to Joanna strikes me as intriguing. Why not file for divorce? Maybe because he knew his wife was buried four feet under in the grove across the street.

  “Did you know Joanna Harris?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

  “No. When I applied for the position, she’d already been gone for a couple of weeks. People at the company talked about her of course, and I’m living in her home now, so I guess I feel like I know her in a sense.” She fiddles with the handle of her mug. She hasn’t touched the decaf. “But in person, no.”

  “When you say, ‘she’d already been gone,’ what does that mean to you?”

  Her gaze flips up to mine. “She went to Los Angeles to be with her sister.”

  “You’re certain?”

  She nods.

  I take a note on the pad lying on the table in front of me. “How do you know that’s where Joanna went?”

  “Michael told me.”

  “Mmm.” I make a note of that too. “Do you know her sister?”

  “No, not at all,” she says, and I believe her. “Do you think she might’ve had something to do with Joanna’s murder?”

  “Right now we’re looking into every possible scenario.”

  It’s my standard answer, but in fact the sister has already been ruled out as a suspect. When she came in for the DNA swab, she’d been out of the country since June. So if Joanna went to L.A. at all, it wasn’t to see her sister.

  Colleen glances over her shoulder, in the direction of the room we’d just left. “But you don’t think Michael had anything to do with it, do you?”

  I wait before replying, making sure my next words are the right ones. “We’re gathering as much information as we can to make sure Joanna’s killer is brought to justice. That’s why you two are here. To assist us in the investigation.”

  At this, she seems to relax a little. “I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Thank you, Colleen,” I tell her. “We’re counting on it. I just have a few more questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  She nods.

  “We’re assuming you know all of Mr. Harris’s staff. But has he introduced you to his neighbors, the Martins, yet?”

  MICHAEL

  I wonder what they’re talking about in there.

  I can’t make out what Colleen is saying, but I hope that bastard Shaw isn’t making her too uncomfortable. Moving to Point Reina was supposed to alleviate her stress.

  And now this.

  Christ, what a mess.

  “Mr. Harris?” Patel asks, drawing my attention back to him. “Are you all right?”

  Patel’s eyes are black as night. I have trouble looking directly at him.

  “Yes, sorry, I was distracted.” I clear my throat by downing the crap they call coffee. “To answer your question, it was to cover our mortgage in case one of us passed away. We decided twenty-five million would do it.”

  They’re preoccupied with the life insurance Joanna and I had on each other, but there isn’t anything wrong with having life insurance on my wife.

  And now that she’s gone, a small part of me—the darkest part I’d never share with anyone—is relieved. A few of my investments haven’t been paying out the way I thought they would. For the last three quarters, my expenses have been higher than my income. I haven’t told anyone—especially Colleen. She’s got enough on her plate. I wouldn’t want to burden her with it—but now, thanks to Joanna’s death, everything will work out. With the life insurance, I’ll be able to pay off everything.

  It’s a horrible thought, but there it is, lingering in the back of my head.

  You’re a monster, Joanna had said that last night. Maybe she was right.

  “Do you know if your wife had any religious affiliations?” Patel asks.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you remember Joanna owning a gold necklace?” He pauses, gauging my reaction. “A medallion?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t pay much attention to her jewelry.”

  Patel leans back in his chair and temples his fingers together. “Mr. Harris, I need you to really try to remember any talks you may have had with your wife about religion. The medallion had the image of the Virgin Mary on it. Did you or Joanna attend any church? Were there any childhood friends or family who may have influenced her? Anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem, will help us.”

  My thoughts reel as I talk. “All the years I’ve known Joanna—the years I knew her,” I correct with a pang in my gut, “we never once went to church. Neither of us wanted to, really. I don’t know about her childhood, or whether her parents were religious, but we were married at the courthouse by a judge, not in a church by a priest. I’m sorry, Detective, but I have no idea why my wife would’ve had something like that.”

  Patel makes a low sound in his throat, as if he’s thinking.


  I seize this time to get some of my own questions answered. “What the other detective said earlier—he said Joanna wasn’t pregnant when she died…”

  I can’t finish.

  “Yes,” Patel says quickly.

  “In July, she should’ve been five months along.” I feel like I’m going to be sick. “What happened to the baby? Did she lose it? Or did she—was it something else?”

  His lips twist, though his stare is dead-on. “We’re not sure about the details yet, but we’re talking with her doctors, and the autopsy will shed light on the state of her body when she was killed.”

  Should I tell them now? My secret is too big to keep for long. But if I reveal the way Joanna left me, they’ll think I killed her. They’ll say I spiraled into a jealous rage…and God forgive me, I did.

  I should tell them. It might lead their investigation in the right direction. But I can’t formulate the words. Horror and fear and something that feels like guilt spike in my gut.

  “Do you…know how she died?”

  “Nothing is conclusive yet. Again, we should have a clear idea once we receive the autopsy and toxicology reports.”

  The bastard’s not going to tell me. Why? Joanna and I may have been estranged, and we may have had our fair share of knockdown drag-out fights, but I still care about her. Why won’t he tell me what they’ve discovered about my wife’s death?

  Like a camera lens suddenly shifting into focus, realization strikes. I’m a suspect. I see what they see—the whole gritty picture in one horrifying snapshot.

  I’m the murdered woman’s husband.

  I slept with my secretary immediately after my wife disappeared.

  I’m the sole recipient of a $25 million insurance policy.

  Do they know about the downturn in my investments? If they do, this picture is looking worse than I thought.

  “Mr. Harris,” Patel goes on grimly, “we’d like to ask you about the event on July fifteenth, when the police were called to your residence. Could you give us the rundown of what happened that night?”

  I think I’m going to vomit again.

  “That was all a big misunderstanding,” I say, swallowing the bile in my mouth. “To be honest, I don’t even remember what it was about.” Lies piled on top of lies. “The Martins called the police as mediators. So they wouldn’t have to put themselves in the middle of our marital problems.”

  “What kind of marital problems?” Patel presses.

  I lift my gaze to his, and answer honestly. “The usual kind that come from two people living in the same space, dealing with the stresses of everyday life.”

  Every fiber of my being wants to demand a lawyer, right here and right now, before they try to trap me into something or twist my words to make me sound guilty. But asking for representation is an admission of guilt in its own way, isn’t it? I’ll appear as if I have something to hide.

  So I pretend my insides aren’t churning. Calmly, taking shallow breaths, I retell the story as best I can. I’m not under arrest. They’re not charging me. No, they’re baiting me. I’m a pawn in their game.

  But so is Colleen.

  From here on out, we’ll have to watch what we say very, very carefully.

  What is she telling Shaw behind closed doors?

  COLLEEN

  On the drive back from the station, Michael doesn’t say much. He stares out the windshield, eyes narrowed against the glare of the mid-morning sun. His fingers grip the steering wheel tight. We haven’t had any time alone to discuss what happened with Joanna, or the fact that I discovered the nursery and her private bedroom. He must be distraught, and I don’t want to upset him further. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling—what it must feel like to know someone you once loved has been dragged out of the mud outside your home. I mean, even if they didn’t get along and split last summer, he loved her once.

  Clearly some part of him was still clinging to her memory. The perfectly preserved bedroom waiting for her return is evidence of that. In the midst of all the commotion, I have to find time to confess to him that I know about those hidden rooms.

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, checking for tears. Nothing. His jaw is relaxed, his lips soft. His expression gives away no hint of emotion. He has to feel something—no doubt he’s in shock or still processing. Maybe he’s angry and suppressing it. Lord knows how I’d deal with such a blow.

  I only want to make this better for him. If I don’t know how he’s feeling, I don’t know how to help him.

  “You talked to the detectives for a long time,” he says finally, turning west, toward home. “What’d they want to know?”

  “Just the basics. My name, where I’m from, when and how we met.” I pause. “What about you?”

  “They wanted to know about our relationship.”

  “Yours and mine?”

  “No.” His voice lacks any kind of emotion. “Mine and Joanna’s.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I should’ve known. Until the detectives finish their investigation, everything is going to be about Joanna and Michael. For the last two days all I’ve wanted to do is fit into Ravenwood, to carve my own place there, and I’ve already felt like Joanna is driving a wedge between us. The only comfort in all this—if there’s any to be had at all—is the fact that Michael can now put a period on that part of his life. He won’t be holding on to any hope that Joanna’s going to walk through the door.

  Surely he won’t want to maintain that yellow-and-white nursery now. Wait…does he expect me to move in there, and for our baby to fill that crib? Like we’re some kind of plug-and-play family?

  I repress a shudder.

  “Colleen, there’s something I need to tell you,” he says, turning onto the east end of Cypress Street. “The detectives have a warrant to search Ravenwood. They’re probably already there. We have to grab a couple bags, let the police search through them, and then leave right away.”

  “This is ridiculous! You didn’t have anything to do with Joanna’s death! What do they think they’re going to find?”

  At that, he weaves his fingers through mine, lifts my hand to his lips, and plants the softest kiss there. “Thank you for your trust in me, darling. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you alone since they showed up, and I wasn’t sure what you thought—if you were thinking I had something to do with—”

  “Michael,” I interrupt fiercely, “you are not a killer. You are the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful man I’ve ever met. I love you more than anything in this world. We’re going to get through this together. Everything is going to be perfect. You said it yourself.”

  “The fact that you’ve never questioned me about anything—not even my past with her—means more than you know. You’re my angel.” He gives my hand a squeeze, and as we drive over a hill, the ocean comes into view on the horizon, vast and dazzling blue, melting into the sky. “I love you, Coll.”

  His angel. My heart flutters. And just like that, smack dab in the messy middle of a murder investigation, all is right in the world again.

  “Where are we going to stay?” I ask, watching houses fly by out the passenger window. “A hotel in the city, maybe?”

  He drops his hand from mine and rests his elbow on the door. “You’re not going to like it.” His eyes are on the road. His voice scares me, just a little. What now?

  “Where?”

  “Rachael extended an invitation to—”

  “Oh, Michael, please don’t tell me we’re staying with them!”

  “It’s one night.” He exhales heavily. “Maybe two. Only until the cops are done searching Ravenwood. Then we can go back.”

  I don’t know if I can keep up the charade another night, let alone two. I can’t keep pretending Rachael is wonderful when I can’t sh
ake the feeling she’s going to stab me in the back the instant I turn around. And there’s something about Travis…There’s nothing I’d like more than to put distance between us. Instead, we’re sleeping over. Talk about torture.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about this either, sweetheart, but I have to start planning her funeral,” he continues. “Heather Chapman, Joanna’s sister, came in to confirm DNA, but she’s already gone back to L.A. She’s making a quick trip up Thursday to help with the details.”

  “When will the funeral be?” I try to keep my voice steady. I can’t believe Joanna’s sister is making Michael responsible for this.

  “Don’t know. Detective Patel says they won’t release Joanna’s”—he clears his throat—“body…until the county coroner’s report is finished, but that all depends on how busy their office is. He said he’d let us know.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” I say, trying to keep my frustration in check. “How are you supposed to plan a funeral when you don’t know when they’ll release her?”

  And how is he supposed to get any kind of closure? Or move on with his life, when everything remains up in the air?

  “Heather and I will go over all the details, but we’ll have to wait to finalize the date until we hear back from the detectives. There’s nothing more we can do.”

  I’m about to rant about the ineptitude of the county coroner’s office when Michael makes the final turn onto our street.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Michael mutters.

  The news vans are back, and they’re everywhere. Cluttering the street on both sides. Blocking driveways. And now, instead of reporters gathering on the grassy area in front of the grove, they’re lining the curb in front of our house. The police officers are back too, except now they’re tramping around the grounds and in the house, invading our personal space. My stomach tightens. I need to stay calm for Michael’s sake.

  “Just keep going. Drive past the Martins’ house. Don’t pull in.”