In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  “So you’re not even going to deny it.” I’m fighting back tears.

  “Just give it back, Rachael,” she spits out. “I’m not playing games.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Joanna glares, thrusting out her hand. “I won’t ask you for it again.”

  I shake my head, dizzy. “How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”

  “Why are you doing this? Seriously, Rachael, I don’t know why you’re so upset. He told me about the way your relationship works. What’s the problem?”

  “You, Joanna. The problem is you. We were never supposed to sleep with people we knew. It was never supposed to be personal. You were my friend.”

  “Were?” Her thinly plucked eyebrows rise. “You’re going to throw away our friendship over meaningless sex?”

  “It’s only meaningless sex to you. But it means something to me. To my marriage.” Her ring burns on my finger, and I ache to get it off.

  She folds her arms over her chest as if she’s a child ready to throw a temper tantrum. “Don’t worry, we haven’t been sleeping together long enough for it to be Travis’s baby. That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”

  “You’re sick!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Don’t blow this up into something it isn’t.” She raises her hands and studies her manicured nails.

  All the nights I’d come home and smell an unfamiliar perfume, the dinner parties when their gazes would linger just a heartbeat too long…all this time. I’d been right, and he’d dismissed my doubts. Made me feel as if I were delusional and stupid with jealousy.

  This is not what I agreed to.

  “You should try having a little perspective,” Joanna adds. “Might make you feel better. Travis and I have had fun. A few trysts, that’s all. As my friend, I thought you might understand what it’s been like for me, going through all of this.”

  “All of what, exactly?”

  “The pregnancy and everything that’s happened after. Michael’s gone all the time because he thinks he has to work double time to make enough money for us, and meanwhile I’m stuck in that big house by myself, with nothing to occupy my time. I’m lonely, Rachael, and I’ve been depressed thinking about how much this baby is going to change my life.” Her expression turns tender as she shakes her head. “Travis has made me remember who I am. He’s made me feel sexy and smart, something I haven’t felt in years.”

  Behind me, Lora makes a mocking sound as if she can’t believe a word of what she’s just heard. Until this moment, I had forgotten we had an audience.

  “Do you love him?” I can feel my heart race as I wait for the answer I don’t want to hear.

  Joanna’s grin flashes. “Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”

  “Good,” I snap. “Then you shouldn’t have a problem leaving us the hell alone.”

  At that, she tips her head back and laughs. “You say that as if I’m the one pursuing him. Have you thought about the possibility that it’s the other way around?”

  “Stay away from him.” I yank the ring off my finger, ball it into my fist, and chuck it across the parking lot as she squeals. “I’m not kidding, Joanna. It’s over.”

  “It’s over when Travis says it’s over. Come on, Rachael, what are you going to do?” she jeers. “Spread rumors through our little town? Tell Michael? Good. Tell everyone. Maybe then we can all stop pretending that our marriages are happy ones.”

  “If you try anything with Travis again,” I cry out, jabbing my finger into her belly, pushing her back, “I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  DETECTIVE SHAW

  Patel seems shocked to learn of Travis and Joanna’s affair, but at this point, nothing would surprise me. I always knew there was something rotten lurking beneath this case. As soon as we get back to the station, I’m running through everyone’s details forwards and backwards.

  If Travis has blood on his hands, I’ll find out.

  On the drive to Dr. Garcia’s office in the city, I shift sides of the cube in new directions. Left. Right for two. Back side once. Left again, the other direction this time. Noting what happens, I change my approach. Adapt to the new formation. I’m thinking of Karen more and more these days, and I’m wondering what it is about Joanna Harris’s case that’s dredging up these feelings again. I’d rather liked my state of numbness, where I didn’t have to feel anything too sharply.

  “Hope you solve this case faster than that cube.” I was toying with the cube even as Patel and I headed into Garcia’s office. “You don’t look any closer to figuring it out than you were yesterday.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, Patel.”

  That’s why we’re here, after all. On the surface, it doesn’t appear Joanna or Michael Harris are connected to Dr. Garcia’s office or to the drugs found prescribed to Mandy McKnight. Yet here we are in the waiting room of the San Francisco Women’s Health Clinic, because of those mismatched prescriptions hidden in their bathroom cabinet.

  Chasing the unknown is one of the reasons I love this job so much. The lack of sleep during the chase? Not so much, but I’ve gotten used to it. A solid night’s sleep has eluded me since Joanna Harris’s body was dug out of the grove. I’ve spent countless hours going over Michael and Colleen’s initial interview recordings, studying the wobble in their voices when they get uncomfortable. I’m so absorbed in sifting truth from the lies that I hear their voices in my brain.

  Closing my eyes and ignoring the drone of Michael Bolton over the waiting room speakers, I tip my head back until it rests against the wall and let my thoughts run through the Harrises’ home. In my mind’s eye, I drift past the massive dining room table, through the sun-flooded kitchen and living room. I skate around the couches and up the stairs, taking in details. Absorbing things I might’ve missed before. Turning right at the stairs, I head into the rooms we’ve now unlocked. The theater-like screening room with its rows of leather reclining seats. The billiards room with a table set up for a game. Balls racked in the center. Cue ball at the end. Sticks lined up on the wall. I let my mind float into the gym, over the elliptical machine, rowing machine, and yoga mats.

  And then I drift through the walls straight into the nursery. It’s too quiet in there. Too sterile. Absent a child’s cry, a tub of diapers. Will that baby Colleen is carrying sleep there someday?

  Patel’s phone pings with an incoming text, derailing my thoughts. He swipes his finger over the screen. “Got the search warrant for the Harrises’ phones,” he tells me. “The office is sending over the call logs now.”

  “About time,” I say. I can’t wait to dig in. “Tell them to send over the text messages, too. And I want more than time stamps.” I need to know what these people were saying to each other. “We’ll dissect them tonight.”

  As the receptionist calls for another woman to make her way into the back, I glance up, attempting to remind her we’re still waiting. But her eyes are downcast, her attention fixed on her computer screen. Three women sit separately, hands clasped in their laps as they ignore the muted television on the wall in the corner. One woman, a pregnant brunette, weeps quietly. Another, an attractive thirty-something blonde in a business suit, crosses her legs and taps her high-heeled foot in the air as if she’s got somewhere to be. The third woman, with deeply sunken, tired eyes, stares into space as if there’s something there, just out of our line of sight.

  “Hear back from the maid yet?” Patel asks, pocketing his phone.

  I nod. “She’s got an alibi. Took a family trip to Aruba from June until late July. She wasn’t anywhere near Point Reina. Checks out.”

  “We haven’t had any more luck with the doctors,” Patel says. “Dr. Smith—the guy who prescribed Michael Harris something for his insomnia—won’t give any details that’ll violate the HIPAA laws. Dr. Souza—the ob-gyn Colleen
is seeing—won’t give anything either. Dr. Garcia’s going to throw up the same roadblocks.”

  “I know.” I twist the blocks on the right side of the cube around and move to the ones in back, giving them a hard spin. “Like you always say, we’ll have to think outside the box.”

  After each woman in the waiting area is called back to see the doctor, we’re finally escorted down one blindingly white hallway that leads to another, and then up a narrow set of stairs. The office smells of disinfectant and coffee. A desk, two chairs, and a short bookshelf cram the small space. The clutter on the desk includes a computer, a clunky telephone, stacks of papers, and a lime-green coffee tumbler. Nothing out of the ordinary. Framed diplomas hang on the walls between patents for medical tools. On the bookshelves, pictures of a tall Hispanic man, a very pregnant woman, and two gap-toothed, beaming children showcase the perfect little family. Husband. Wife. A boy and a girl.

  Does Cameron Garcia know how lucky he is?

  We take our seats in front of the desk as the door clicks shut behind us. I try to steady my breathing. I hate hospitals; never have been able to stand them since Karen died.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. I’m Dr. Garcia.” He moves around the table, hand extended, and we stand to greet him. “What can I do for you?”

  Towering over six feet tall, with a thick band of fat around his middle, Cameron Garcia has black hair buzzed close to his scalp. Wide-set eyes, intelligent, hidden behind square, black-rimmed glasses. Neatly trimmed beard. His handshake is firm, but his skin is soft.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Patel says. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

  “My assistant tells me you have a question about some prescriptions?” Garcia sits behind his desk and studies us impassively.

  I nod. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation and recovered two bottles of medications prescribed by this office. One was for Valium, the other for Vicodin. The prescriptions are for Mandy McKnight. A patient of yours?”

  Narrowing his eyes, Garcia scoots to the edge of his leather chair and leans over the desk toward us. “If you’re here about the victim of a homicide, I’m sorry I won’t be of much help. As I’m sure you know, HIPAA laws extend fifty years postmortem. I won’t be able to give you any insight into the patient—if Mandy McKnight was my patient—until the year 2067. I suggest you come back then.”

  A real comedian, this guy.

  “Mandy McKnight isn’t the victim,” Patel corrects.

  “Has she granted you permission to unseal her medical records?”

  Ms. McKnight wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her personal information. “Not yet.”

  Garcia’s expression doesn’t change. “Then I really don’t know what you think I’m going to be able to tell you, Detectives. Anything I relate to you today wouldn’t be admissible in court.”

  He’s going to be a difficult one to crack.

  I’ve looked him up, and I know his is one of the few clinics in the area that performs late-term abortions. It’s not the sole procedure they offer, of course. From what I’ve read, they also perform tubal ligations and assist in cases of late-term miscarriage and fetal demise. They offer counseling to aid in their patients’ mental and emotional well-being. They’ve received stellar reviews.

  “We don’t believe Ms. McKnight committed the murder we’re investigating,” I say, switching up the approach. “We’re in the middle of our investigation, and Ms. McKnight’s name has been brought into it through these pills. She could be in danger, so time is of the essence. We simply want to know more about Ms. McKnight to keep her safe and to maybe shed some light on details in this homicide.”

  The doc eyes us thoughtfully. But he doesn’t budge.

  “You have a beautiful family.” I gesture toward the pictures on the shelf beside us. “How old are your children?”

  “Five and three.” He instantly relaxes back into the chair. “Maria and Martin. That’s my wife, Kendra.”

  “You are very blessed. And I see congratulations are in order,” I remark. “How far along is your wife?”

  “Eight months. It’s a girl.”

  “I don’t have any children myself,” I offer, picking up the frame to study the picture of his smiling family. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I envy you.”

  “Well,” the doctor says, “you’re still young. It’s not too late to start a family, if you want one.”

  “Oh, it’s much too late for me,” I bite out, aware of the plain gold band still on my finger. “But thank you anyway.”

  “His wife died last year,” Patel interjects, always the blabbermouth. “Cancer.”

  And with that word, the air seems to be sucked out of the room with a vacuum. I wince.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Detective,” Garcia says sincerely. He studies me a moment and I’m certain we’re going to get nothing from him. Then he surprises me by saying, “I may not be able to give specifics, but I’ll answer what I can. What do you want to know?”

  “Mandy McKnight was a patient of yours, correct?”

  He nods.

  Interesting. Either he or Mandy is a bold-faced liar. “Can you tell me what you treated her for?”

  He shakes his head, his face still unreadable.

  “When did she first become your patient?”

  He pushes out a thin stream of air, adjusts a sheet of paper on his tidy desk. “As I said before, Detectives, I won’t give specifics, but I imagine it might have been sometime last June.”

  “When was the last time she visited your office?”

  He pauses, measuring me with guarded eyes. “The last time? July, I would say. Around the first of the month.”

  “Do you remember if she came to her appointments alone?”

  Again, his lips purse. “It’s hard to say. Many women in her position want the matter to be handled privately. Others prefer to have someone with them, for comfort.”

  But why did she come to see you?

  I can’t ask him. At least not outright. Because he won’t tell me.

  “How many times did you see her?” Patel butts in.

  Garcia’s razor-sharp focus shifts to my partner. “Not speaking to this case specifically, there are some services we offer that require more in-depth counseling. Sometimes we recommend our patients speak with one of our in-house counselors for four or five sessions before procedures are cleared. We pride ourselves on being a clinic that provides top-notch emotional and medical support.”

  “Which of your procedures require counseling?” I ask.

  “Abortion, late-term miscarriage, and tubal ligation, to name a few.”

  I nod. “Taking into account this information, and speaking theoretically, you might have seen Mandy McKnight approximately once for her procedure”—whatever it was—“and four times for counseling afterward.”

  “Not necessarily in that order, but yes. Theoretically it would’ve been something like that.”

  “And—still speaking theoretically—what kind of medications might be offered after procedures like the ones you mentioned before?”

  “There could be many,” he replies. “Ibuprofen or Motrin would be given to relieve minor discomfort. Antibiotics might be prescribed to prevent infection, and other medications might be added to the list as well, depending on whether or not the mother exhibits signs of depression. Also, not that it necessarily pertains to this hypothetical case, but women experiencing more severe pain may be prescribed a combination of Valium and Vicodin to make them more comfortable.”

  There we go. It’s all coming together now.

  Mandy McKnight sought some kind of services from Dr. Garcia’s clinic in June or July. She was either pregnant and lost the child, chose to abort it, or decided to have a s
terilization procedure. She visited this clinic and received counseling here. She was in extreme pain and filled prescriptions for Vicodin and Valium, which she never finished taking, since fifty-two pills remain in each bottle.

  But how did her medication end up in the back of the Harrises’ medicine cabinet? And what, if anything, does that have to do with Joanna? It could be nothing. Mandy might’ve been friends with Joanna. She might’ve come to stay the night and accidentally left her prescriptions behind. Yes, the pills could lead nowhere. But something keeps telling me Mandy McKnight will be the missing piece to finding Joanna’s killer.

  “Thank you for that information, Dr. Garcia,” I say, rising. Patel sends me a surprised look: he has other questions he wants to ask. “It’s extremely helpful. I have one more question, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Go on,” he nods.

  “Could you confirm whether Mandy McKnight was pregnant at the time of her first visit?”

  I’m not taking a shot in the dark, not at all. I’m studying his reaction, analyzing his response, and measuring those against everything I’ve heard thus far.

  “In your line of work, Detective Shaw, privacy may not be important,” he says evenly, his face a blank slate, “but to us, it’s paramount to the safety of the women who visit our clinic.”

  Someone raps on his door, and a second later, the receptionist peers into the room. She’s taller than I realized. Glossy blond hair with hot pink streaks in it. Cornflower blue eyes. Round face and high cheekbones. She’s attractive in a sweet, innocent kind of way.

  “Dr. Garcia,” she whispers, “your twelve-thirty is here.”

  “Thank you, Tiffany,” he says, holding her gaze just a little long. He stands. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to attend to.”

  Just like that, our time is up.

  “What about the name Joanna Harris?” I stop in the doorway. “Has she ever been a patient here?”