“Where are we supposed to go, Colleen?” he snaps.
I ignore the nastiness of his tone. “We can stay at a hotel and disappear for a while.”
We pass Ravenwood, and he pulls into Travis and Rachael’s driveway, parking behind Travis’s black BMW and Rachael’s cherry-red Porsche. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Colleen. I’m not running. We’re going to stay here and wait this out.”
The moment we exit the car, we’re swarmed with reporters. Cameras and questions blur together into one loud roar. I stagger back from the force of it as strangers jog up the driveway.
“There he is!”
“Mr. Harris, what was your reaction upon hearing of your wife’s death?”
“How soon after your wife left did you begin dating Miss Roper?”
“Hey, Mike!”
At my side in a flash, Michael curves his arm protectively over my shoulder and escorts me toward the glass house.
“Mr. Harris!”
“We’ll get our bags later,” Michael says, over the onslaught of questions. “After it’s died down. They can’t stay here forever.”
I nod, agreeing. There’s no way I’m weaving through the crowd, being analyzed by the deputies. I’m done being questioned for the day.
As Rachael opens the door and whisks us inside, the reporters cluster between Ravenwood and their home. It only then occurs to me that we’re staying in a see-through house. Like monkeys on display in the zoo.
How could Michael possibly think this was a good plan?
“Thanks for letting us stay,” Michael tells Travis, releasing me to shake his hand. “It’s a circus out there.”
“Don’t mention it. Drink?”
“God, yes.”
My hand rests against my stomach as I stare past the reporters, to Ravenwood. The house is buzzing with excitement. The massive entrance door has been propped open, to allow easier access for officers to trudge in and out. They wrap plastic covers over their boots and shove their hands into latex gloves before heading inside.
What are they expecting to find? I realize they’re covering their bases, crossing every t and dotting every i, but they’re wasting their time. Over the years, I’ve read more thrillers than I can count. Reading about an investigation on the page is interesting. But living it, watching it unfold from the window next door, makes me feel…violated.
Something strikes me with the force of a mallet on a drum. They’re going to search the master bedrooms. They’ll know one belonged to Joanna. They’re going to assume Joanna and Michael were having marital problems. Oh, God. No matter what we do now, the investigation is going to paint a poor picture of Michael.
Another patrol car pulls up to the curb, and the two detectives from the station step out, the short redheaded one twisting something in his hand.
“Damn reporters were knocking down our door earlier,” Rachael says, coming to stand beside me. “They had questions about our friendship with Michael and Joanna.”
“What’d you tell them?” I ask, keeping my gaze on the chaos unfolding out the window.
“Nothing. Travis chased them away. Said it was none of their business.”
“Thank you for that. And for letting us stay. Michael didn’t want to get a hotel. He said it’d make it look like we were running away.”
“He’s right, you know.” Staring out across the sea of press, she frowns. “They’re going to be watching him closely from now on. He has to be extremely careful what he does.” She adds darkly, “And what he says.”
“He doesn’t deserve this. He didn’t do anything wrong, I know it. Michael’s not capable of something like that.”
Rachael makes a small noise of agreement.
“Can I ask you something?” I whisper, leaning closer.
She turns, facing me. “Sure.”
“When was the last time you talked to Joanna?”
Her expression changes, just a flash of something dark, and then it’s gone. “I can’t remember exactly. Sometime in July, I think.”
Hmm, that’s interesting. Right around the time Joanna died, according to the dates the police gave.
I repress a shudder.
Rachael could’ve been the one who killed Joanna. Something about the way she’s acting doesn’t sit right with me. The first day I met Rachael, when she stopped by for a visit, she’d said she and Joanna used to be best friends. And then something happened. They’d drifted apart. Hadn’t Rachael said she was glad Joanna dropped off the face of the earth? Now I can’t remember exactly, but it was something along those lines.
“Listen,” Rachael says firmly, pivoting away from the window, “it’s probably best that everyone minds his or her own business this week. We’re already going to feel like ants under a microscope, thanks to the detectives questioning everyone and everything all the time. We don’t need our friends doing it too.”
“The detectives are questioning you?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll want to interview us at some point, since I was Joanna’s friend, and Travis works for Michael’s company. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”
And then, with a smile that would challenge the brightness of the sun, she’s gone, joining Michael and Travis at the bar.
DETECTIVE SHAW
Ravenwood.
Scrawled on a massive beam above the front door, its letters are deeply etched into the wood. In the living room, a wood carving of some kind of bird—a crow or raven?—watches over the room. It’s positioned like a trophy, perched on the mantel with its tiny black head tilted up in defiance. I wonder if the bird came with the place, passed along from owner to owner, or if the Harrises purchased it to spotlight the name the house had been given.
Karen loved to decorate, but her tastes veered more toward soft and floral than stark and modern. For nine years she’d created a warm home that I was happy to return to each night. She’d be disappointed if she could see that home now, stripped bare and kept dark. She’d grab me by the shoulders and shake me. Tell me to wake from whatever funk I’m in.
But that’s just it. I’m not in a funk at all.
I’ve simply been shown, in the harshest way possible, that none of these things—the expensive homes, elaborate furnishings, and luxury cars that the people of Point Reina seem to worship—matter. Not in the least. And definitely not in the end, when you’d happily throw all of that junk into the sea if it meant you could have more time. Even if it was one fleeting second to tell someone you loved them for the millionth time.
Out the Harrises’ windows, rich green grass leads down to a roiling, turbulent sea. Wispy clouds mark the charcoal-gray sky. By midafternoon, hard gusts of wind rip over the sea and whiz around the house, creating a low whistle that seems to vibrate the very air we’re breathing. No one else seems to notice.
But I pay attention to everything.
Windows without curtains. Books lined up like soldiers on the shelves in the living room. Clean dishes in the dishwasher. The lingering scent of a woman’s perfume—powdery and flowery—in the big downstairs bathroom. Upstairs, the hall veers right and left. East and west.
“Shaw,” Patel calls from the darker of the two wings, and I follow the sound of his voice. “These doors are locked.”
“We’ll get the key.”
I round the corner and count the doors quickly, testing each one as I pass. Judging from the pattern of windows on the outside of the house, I bet the setup is the same on this side as it is on the opposite side. Many more rooms than two people need. Patel is standing in front of the door at the end of the hall. Unlike the others, this door is cracked open, allowing a pale stream of light to escape onto the hardwood.
“You should see this,” he says, and disappears inside.
As I push the door open wide, I log mental
notes. Four-poster bed. Bedding that resembles a cloud. Oversize furniture. Pristine and white with a feminine touch. Furry rug. Dark flooring. Strangely sweet-smelling air.
Something tells me this was Joanna’s personal space. Somewhere she could be herself, away from her husband. Why did she feel the need to be alone? Had she been afraid of him?
Taking a framed photo from the bureau, I stare at the stunning woman. Long, dark, wavy hair. Heart-shaped face. Pale skin. Big blue eyes that pierce through to anyone who looks at the picture. Michael Harris has his arms around her, and he looks bewitched.
“Shaw,” Patel calls once more.
I replace the frame, and when I turn, he’s opened a small door beside the bathroom.
“It just gets weirder and weirder,” he says, gesturing for me to go through first.
“Wow.” I imagine the hopes and dreams that must’ve flowed through this space, once upon a time. A crib fitted with a yellow sheet and colorful quilt is an eerie reminder of what those dreams must have been. “Doesn’t seem like he changed a thing.”
Patel stands near the changing table shaking his head. A Gucci diaper bag hangs against the wall behind him, and he reaches up to adjust it on its hook.
“This makes me think he’s telling the truth,” I offer. “He must not have known what happened to their baby. That she lost it. How else could he bear looking at this?”
“Maybe he never wanted that baby. It’s too soon to make any assumptions. We don’t know anything yet.”
Michael could be innocent. A brokenhearted husband and father waiting for his wayward wife to return home against all odds. Or he could be hiding much more.
Yet, as I charge down the hall, eyeing the locked doors, I can’t get the image of that yellow nursery out of my mind. He kept it up. Cleaned it. There was no dust clinging to the dresser or the crib rails. We have a team dusting for fingerprints, although I doubt we’ll discover anything but proof that Michael, Colleen, and maybe Joanna have lived here. I’m sure we’ll find prints from their staff as well.
Every detail, no matter how minuscule, paints a picture of the life Michael and Colleen live. And if I dig deep enough, I’ll discover the kind of life Joanna lived here, too. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I head out the back door, thankful for the blast of cold air. I felt like I was suffocating in that house.
“Think we have something,” a young deputy says when he spots me. “In here.”
Hands on my hips, I follow him to the six-bay garage. It’s larger than it seems from the outside, if that’s possible. Two stories high. Cement floors. Bright lighting. Cabinets stretching along the entire back wall. Exotic sports cars rest in front of each garage bay—a canary-yellow Ferrari, black Bugatti, and silver Aston Martin—and at the far end of the garage, a car covered in a tarp. If Michael leaves these beauties exposed, what kind of car has he concealed?
I make a beeline for the car at the far end and lift the cover.
“Surprise,” I say with a laugh. “Wouldn’t have thought it.”
I was expecting a Lamborghini, or maybe a one-of-a-kind classic American muscle car. Not an ordinary Lexus.
“This way,” the deputy says, his voice echoing in the big space. “I was searching through the cabinets and found these.”
He steps aside so I can study the contents of the nearest cabinet. One side is full of boxes. The deputies have already opened a few, revealing old blankets, candles, some small kitchen appliances, and a set of china with an ugly pattern.
“There,” the deputy says, pointing to the opposite side of the cabinet. “Behind the tarp.”
I push the tarp aside. Garden tools lean against the back wall. Two shovels, a rake, Weedwacker, a hoe.
“Take these in and have them checked for traces of DNA.”
“Yes, sir.”
I head back inside to continue peeling back the layers of their lives. I start downstairs, in the guest bathroom, and open the medicine cabinet first. Advil and Theraflu, DayQuil, and two boxes of Q-tips. A near-empty prescription bottle for Restoril. I’m not familiar with it, but a quick Google search on my phone reveals the medication is used to combat insomnia. It’s also highly addictive. This particular bottle dates back to July. Prescribed to Michael Harris by Dr. Priscilla Smith.
I bag it.
Kneeling in front of the cupboard, I start sifting, pulling out boxes filled with tissues, feminine products, and first aid essentials. I slide a plastic organizer filled with bathroom cleaners to the side, and—
Bingo.
In the far back corner, behind bottles of Clorox and bathroom cleaner, a silver cosmetic bag catches my eye. I pick it up carefully, unzip it, and shake two large prescription bottles into my palm. Valium and Vicodin. It appears the bottles have gotten wet at some point. The labels are blurred, and lifting at the corners, and the dates have faded away. Both are approximately half full.
I roll them into a bag, seal it shut, and then hold the labels up to the light to get a better look.
They were both prescribed by Dr. Cameron Garcia, who works on Valencia Street in San Francisco. More intriguingly, neither is prescribed to Michael, Colleen, or Joanna.
The prescription is for someone named Mandy McKnight.
It’s a crime to be in possession of a controlled substance prescribed to someone else. Had Michael or Colleen bought the medication illegally? Or perhaps Joanna and Michael didn’t bother to throw the pills out when they moved in five years ago. Either way, I’m going to find out.
Pulling out my phone, I do a quick Google search for “Dr. Cameron Garcia, San Francisco.” One listing hits the mark. He’s been a doctor for ten years. Women’s clinic. Great reviews. Once I’m satisfied I’ve found the right doctor, I google: “Mandy McKnight, Point Reina.” Too many hits to go through one by one. I open Facebook and do a search. Three Mandy McKnights show up. One is local to San Mateo County. Her profile image is a zoomed-in picture of a Chihuahua’s face, and the damn dog is wearing a blue hooded jacket. Private profile. Under “employment,” it lists her as the owner of Studio Balance Pilates in Half Moon Bay.
Tomorrow’s shaping up to be a busy day.
I’ll be heading to the real estate agency where Rachael works, a women’s clinic, and a Pilates studio. And maybe, if there’s time, Harris Financial.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve checked the recorder in my pocket to ensure it’s on and working, I go upstairs to face Michael and Colleen. They’re seated on the big leather couch practically on top of each other, holding hands, their eyes shifting to the deputies roaming the room. Two bags rest at their feet, and a quick glance at the deputy standing behind the couch—who gives a thumbs-up—tells me he’s already gone through them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. We should be finished tomorrow morning,” I say, “but whatever time we end here, rest assured there’ll be an officer on the scene all hours of the night, until we return the keys to you.”
I say this for two reasons. One, I want them to know their home is safe. I won’t leave it unsecured. We’ve all seen the hungry journalists outside, greedy for some clue, some insight into Joanna. Two, and perhaps more important, I want Michael to know that he can’t come back and tamper with the scene.
“Thank you,” Colleen says, trying to smile at me. “We really appreciate that.”
Harris clenches his jaw, saying nothing.
“Mr. Harris, we found these in your medicine cabinet,” I say, holding up the bag with the prescription bottles. “Could you explain them for me, please?”
“Sure.” He shakes his head as if he’s in some kind of daze. “I was having trouble sleeping after my wife left.” Beside him, Colleen Roper stiffens. “I went to see Dr. Smith to ask if she could prescribe something to help. Since when is it a crime to take something to combat insomnia?”
“No.” Colleen says. The hand Harris isn’t gripping now curves against her belly. “I’m not the best with names, but I don’t think so.”
As I watch her hand, it strikes me that she’s almost showing, maybe at the same point in her pregnancy Joanna was said to have been when she vanished. Something clicks. How had her husband not known that Joanna lost the baby before July, when she disappeared? Were they truly that estranged? Or is the guy playing us for fools?
“Mr. Harris?” I prod, when I realize he hasn’t answered my question.
“I don’t know anyone named Mandy.” He glances at a deputy as she leaves his home. “But what does that have to do with my wife’s murder?”
“We’re not sure just yet,” I answer, sitting down in the leather chair opposite them. And I wonder just how much information to divulge. “But we found two other prescription bottles in your bathroom cabinet. These were made out to someone by that name.”
I watch for their reactions. Colleen appears confused, her eyebrows pinching together as she turns to her boyfriend. Harris looks straight ahead, stoic, his lips pressed tight. He’s handling this well, I note. Too well? After Karen passed away, I was unable to function for weeks. But after learning a few hours ago that his wife was murdered, Michael appears only mildly irritated.
“You found them in our bathroom?” Colleen asks.
I nod. “They were tucked behind the cleaning products.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Harris insists. “I don’t know what those bottles would be doing in my bathroom. I’ve never seen them before.”
Deny everything.
It’s a normal part of this process, and he’s falling in line with most other suspects when they realize the predicament they’re in. They clam up, afraid to reveal too much, and deny knowing anything at all. Next will be anger, and judging from the way he’s glaring at me, that’s coming soon.
“What about Dr. Cameron Garcia?” I ask. “Ever visit a doctor by that name?”
In Her Shadow Page 13