In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  “And you had yours,” he interrupts curtly. He splashes more liquor in his glass.

  “Yeah, but we agreed friends were off-limits.”

  He sighs, burying his long, burdened exhale in his second drink.

  “That was your rule for this game, and now—Jesus-fucking-Christ, I can’t believe you put us in this position.” I sweep the hair away from my neck, but it doesn’t cool the flash of heat blooming there. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Calm down.” He rounds the island, drags me into his arms, and caresses my back. “You’re getting all worked up over something that happened last year. What Joanna and I had is over. It’s done.”

  “Because she was killed, for Christ’s sake!” The laugh that bubbles out of me is borderline hysterical. “And now the police suspect us and—”

  “Whoa, whoa—what?” He jerks back, nearly pushing me away, his dark eyes wild. “We’re suspects now? Did the cops tell you that?”

  “No, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “That you talked to Joanna sometime right before she died.”

  “Is that all they have?” He paces from the back door to the living room windows and back again, clenching and unclenching his fists and popping his knuckles. The sound makes my skin crawl. “Those messages could’ve been about business.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell them.”

  “And they didn’t believe you?”

  “Travis, it’s not that simple. I don’t think you realize how bad this looks. You were sleeping with your boss’s wife and were talking to her right up until the end. Once they find out about the affair, they’re going to know you had motive.”

  “What motive could I possibly have?” he snarls.

  “You’re the jealous lover.”

  His jaw tightens as if I’ve hit the nail on the head, and something inside me wilts.

  “If that’s the case,” he says, his voice darkening, “you’re my vengeful wife. You don’t think they’ll try to spin that too?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Travis—should we get a lawyer?”

  “No.” He takes a loud, labored breath. “Not yet.”

  Outside, Melissa Mendes fluffs her hair in front of the camera and prepares to go live for the six o’clock news. She’s standing on the grassy patch between our home and the Harrises’, her back to us. Without saying a word, Travis wraps his arm around my shoulder and guides me in front of our floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, we’ll be caught on camera looking like the worried couple next door.

  “We need to stay calm, especially now.” His voice is low and soothing, vibrating my head where it rests against his chest. “They’re just trying to make us panic, to see how we react when they put pressure on us, but they can twist the story as much as they want. There’s nothing to find, right? We did nothing wrong.”

  I nod against his chest, hesitantly.

  “Now kiss me,” he says. “And let’s give them one hell of a show.”

  COLLEEN

  Settling into the corner of the couch, I glance out the window at the grove before peeling open the book on my lap. It’s A Study in Scarlet, the very first Sherlock Holmes novel. I’ve read it a dozen times, and don’t know why I felt the need to pull the classic from my shelf this morning. But when I flip through the pages and begin skimming, it comes to me.

  The cryptic word Rache written in blood. It’d been a clue in the classic Sherlock tale—crimson letters scrawled on the walls of two different crime scenes. Although the police had been stumped, Sherlock deciphered the message. It wasn’t short for a woman’s name, as officers had rashly presumed.

  As Sherlock swiftly pointed out, Rache was German for “revenge.”

  If Rachael knew about Travis’s affair with Joanna, she’d have a motive for killing Joanna, too. Rachael might’ve been enraged, seeking vengeance, and…

  Dean whistles off-key from the kitchen as he whisks together Joanna’s favorite breakfast, distracting me. I’ve come downstairs early, before my coffee’s ready, and it’s irked him. He hasn’t said as much, but I can tell by the tightness of his whistle. I know the less Dean sees of me the better, but this morning Michael’s home, and going into work late, and I wanted the two of us to eat together. He said he would meet me downstairs in a few minutes. That he had to take care of something first.

  From my position in the living room, I can clearly see Dean leaning against the kitchen island as he cuts through a handful of greens. He’s efficient with that knife, isn’t he? And he was close to Joanna.

  Suddenly, as if the clouds part in my brain, I’m noticing suspects and motives everywhere. Dean and Joanna. Were they having an affair? Clearly they were close. It’s possible. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading Sherlock Holmes, it’s that anyone could be the culprit.

  Michael leans over and plants a kiss on my forehead. “I have a surprise for you.”

  I spin around, curling my legs beneath me. “Surprise?”

  “I know you never needed a car in the city, but I was thinking it’d be a good idea to get you one,” he says, rifling through his briefcase. “Especially since you’re alone here most days.”

  “Wow,” I say. A car wouldn’t be such a bad idea. It could be nice. On days I feel trapped among Joanna’s things, I could take a drive and escape for a while. “What’s the surprise? Are we going car shopping after my doctor’s appointment?”

  “That’d be an awful waste of time.” He pulls a single key out of his bag and hands it over. “Considering I already have the perfect car for you.”

  All goes quiet in the kitchen.

  Confused, I turn the key over in my palm. “You bought me a car?”

  “Not exactly. You still have your driver’s license, don’t you?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Come on then, follow me.” He opens the back door and spreads his arm toward the private, circular drive. “She’s yours if you want her.”

  I follow him onto the limestone steps and stop short, staring at the midnight-blue Lexus coupe parked in the center of the drive. If it’s not brand-new, it must’ve been kept in the garage, because the paint is immaculate. Shiny and perfect. Not a dent on it. Two doors. Sloping hood. It looks exactly like the kind of car all of the women in this neighborhood would drive. It’s luxurious and sporty, and probably cost more than I would have made in two years at his company.

  “You’re not serious,” I say, gulping air as my heart races. “Michael…is it a—”

  “Convertible,” he finishes for me. “Thought you might like that feature.”

  “But I don’t understand. You said you didn’t buy me a car.”

  “I didn’t. I bought it years ago, for me, but never drove it much. It sat covered in the far garage stall until I hired someone to come out yesterday and tune it up. They detailed it and filled up the tank, too. It’s ready to go.”

  I can hear reporters prattling in the distance, beyond the curving drive and security gate. I’m thankful for the privacy back here; yet something is wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “Colleen?” He caresses my arm. “You don’t like it.”

  That’s the last thing I want him to think. I plaster on a smile. “Of course I do, sweetheart. How could I not? Thank you so much.”

  “Good. It’s yours then.” He stoops to kiss my lips. “Don’t forget to ask the doctor about the fatigue and mood swings you’ve been having. We need to make sure everything’s on track with you and that baby.”

  That baby.

  “I’m sure everything’s fine, but I’ll ask anyway so you don’t worry.” I lean into him as he envelops me in a goodbye hug. He smells so good, the scent of his cologne a deep, woodsy musk. My
heart flutters as I close my eyes. “Michael, I wish you’d come with me to the doctor’s.”

  He drops his hands, and I go cold.

  “You know I can’t,” he says. “If you want the kind of life where you can stay home in Ravenwood and raise this baby, I need to support us. That means I can’t skip work for every doctor appointment.”

  “Not even one?”

  “Don’t beg.”

  “But I might be getting an ultrasound today.” I keep my voice soft. Light. No pressure, even though I’m dying for him to come with me. The key burns in my hand. “Wouldn’t you like to see our baby? Or hear its heartbeat?”

  That might make this pregnancy real for him. He might start to think of the baby as his. Then, he could focus on everything we have to look forward to in our future and put Joanna, her affair with Travis, and the loss of their baby behind him.

  I wonder if the detectives have come any closer to figuring out the reason Joanna wasn’t pregnant when they discovered her body. The thought of the possibilities makes my stomach turn. Maybe I should stop by the station to check in. We’re certainly not receiving any updates from the news crews camping outside.

  “I would go with you,” he says, “but someone has to provide for this family, and nothing gets done at the office if I’m not there. You know that.”

  “I know.” He micromanages the business so obsessively, I often worry about the strain it puts on him. “I’ll text when I’m leaving the appointment to let you know what the doctor said.”

  “I’d like that.” Michael kisses me again, this time on the cheek. “Love you, Coll.”

  “Love you back.”

  “Enjoy your new car.”

  I watch as he disappears into the garage. Minutes later, the door opens, and he backs out, waving before disappearing down the drive. As I pocket the key and plop back onto the couch, Dean resumes his whistling of a song I don’t recognize. I hold the book in my lap and stroke the cover as my gaze lingers on the scraggly branches of the cypress trees. Out front, the die-hards and cynics still linger, parked across our street twenty-four hours a day, hoping to get the first scoop or prove their sinister hunches right.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Dean says from the kitchen, “he didn’t go to any of Joanna’s doctor appointments either.”

  I should ignore him and go back to my book, but I’m morbidly curious about Joanna, the constant presence in this house and in Michael’s heart.

  “How do you know?” I ask nonchalantly, closing the book and setting it aside.

  His lips pinch together as if he’s just bitten into something sour. “She told me everything. He’s not the type to get involved in things like that. Never was. But I’m sure you know that by now.”

  I’m not going to let Dean drop a bomb like that and then return to scrubbing potatoes for dinner. Sliding off the couch, I move into the kitchen and head straight for the coffeepot.

  “No, I’ve got it,” he says, cutting me off. “You sit. Take a load off.”

  This time, when he reaches for the vanilla creamer, I stop him.

  “Just a shake of cinnamon,” I say firmly. “No sugar or cream. Please.”

  He eyes me wearily but fulfills my request. After sliding the mug over, he goes back to prepping. Snatching a handful of fresh herbs from the fridge, he slaps them on the cutting board and chops feverishly. He grates lemon zest, then roughly dices everything together, all with increasing speed and force. Much more of this, and he’s going to bend the knife. Or slice a finger off.

  I dare not hope.

  The boldness of the coffee hits me hard, and I let my thoughts fly. “Why is it such a stretch for you to realize Joanna and I are two completely different people, with completely different relationships, who want completely different things?”

  “Oh, believe me, the differences are stark. I notice them every day,” he replies through clenched teeth. Removing two salmon fillets from the fridge, he slams them on a second cutting board. “But old habits die hard. Forgive me if I continue to serve you her coffee.”

  The differences are stark?

  Isn’t that what I’ve wanted from the start? To be my own person, living out of Joanna’s ever-present shadow? But I don’t know whether to take what he said as a compliment or a criticism.

  “Take that scowl off your face,” he spits, raising the knife. “It’s not pretty.”

  Definitely a criticism.

  “Michael and I are happy,” I say. “We’re so unbelievably in love. I’m sure you’ve seen it from the short amount of time I’ve been here. Being different from Joanna must not be so bad after all.”

  “Mr. Harris is one of the most dedicated men I know. He’s thoughtful and charismatic. And he would do anything for his family.” Dean slashes through the bodies of the fish. Six equally spaced incisions. “But there’s another side to Mr. Harris I don’t think you’ve seen yet. A darker side.”

  I try to laugh it off. “Are we talking about the same Michael?”

  He glares, deadpan. “He’s got a switch that flips. Joanna used to talk to me about what would happen if she questioned his authority. He’d practically lose his mind.”

  “I don’t think you can compare—”

  “According to Joanna,” he goes on, stuffing seasonings and slices of lemon into the fish’s gaping lacerations, “they’d love hard and fight harder. Get into nasty screaming matches, those two. In the mornings, after their big blowouts, he’d send her long-stemmed red roses. One dozen for every year they’d been together. As if that could make her forget what had happened. He never understood her.”

  “Ahem.” The voice sounds behind us, and Dean and I both freeze. “I hardly think Mr. and Mrs. Harris’s marriage problems are on this morning’s menu.” It’s Samara, hands on her hips, hair drawn back behind her ears, her thin lips set in a disapproving line. “What would Mr. Harris think if he knew you two were in here gossiping about him?”

  “We’re not—” I start.

  “Oh, don’t make excuses to her, Miss Roper. Threats are her thing,” Dean retorts, returning his focus to the fish. “I’d forgotten that the words that come out of my mouth are also under her scrutiny.”

  As Samara storms out of the kitchen, mumbling something about people needing to mind their own business, I get up to follow. She can’t tell Michael that I was bad-mouthing him and Joanna. It’d make me look awful.

  “Samara, wait,” I call out, and catch up to her as she enters the library. I shut the heavy doors behind us and watch as she begins straightening papers on Michael’s desk, refusing to look at me. “I wasn’t bad-mouthing Michael, I swear. Dean was talking about how he would buy Joanna flowers when they—”

  “I heard every word of what you were saying in there.”

  I pause, waiting for some kind of reassurance that she won’t say anything to Michael about it. But it never comes, and now I feel like I have to patch things up.

  “I was talking about how much I love Michael, that’s all.”

  “And what was Dean saying?”

  “He might’ve mentioned how tumultuous his relationship with Joanna was.”

  She piles books into a stack at the corner of the desk with a huff. “What no man in this house seems to understand is that Joanna was complex. One of a kind. She was lonely. Desperate to talk to someone who understood her. During one of the toughest times of her life, there were only two people who actually took the time to listen—me and her counselor, that’s it. ‘Tumultuous.’ Humph. See if he could go through what she went through and not lose his mind.”

  I swallow hard. “Go through what?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. She’s a dumpy woman, burly, and very plain. “You know why there was no baby in the ground when they found her, don’t you?” When I shake my
head, stunned, she pauses, chewing her lip, as if that’ll help her decide how much to trust me. “She miscarried the baby. Back in May. She was three months pregnant at the time. Holed herself up in the second master until she had the strength to face the world again. I’m surprised Mr. Harris didn’t tell you.”

  “It must’ve slipped his mind.” As the words escape me, I want to slap myself. How could he possibly have forgotten to mention that his wife miscarried his child? “We try not to talk about the past,” I say, truthfully.

  Removing a cloth hanging out of the front pocket of her apron, Samara strides to the bookshelves and begins dusting the spines. “Joanna didn’t tell him at first, of course. Mr. Harris wanted a child so badly, the news would’ve crushed him. And their marriage was already veering off a cliff—Joanna didn’t want this bump in their plans to set him off. It was horrible, the way she had to go through all of it alone. Bless the Lord for her counselor, who helped her find God before the end. At least now she won’t be alone in death, the way she was in life.”

  “Counselor?” No one mentioned Joanna had been seeing a shrink.

  “Last summer, she was seeing someone at a women’s clinic in the city.” She swipes the surface of the shelves clean. “She had to attend four counseling sessions before she could be medically cleared.”

  “What does that mean? Cleared for what?” I sink into the leather chair in front of the hearth. “Was Joanna sick?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Come on,” I urge. “You were closer to Joanna than anyone. She must’ve told you.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder as she continues to wipe down the shelves. “Believe it or not, I have no idea. I asked her many times. But her reason for going to the clinic was one thing she seemed determined to keep private.”

  “Well, I’m sure the detectives will find out soon enough. They seem to uncover everything.”

  “They won’t find out about the clinic. Not on their own, anyway.” With her back still to me, Samara shakes her head emphatically. “I don’t know what was going on with her, but she was worried about people finding out. When I suggested seeing someone at a specialized clinic rather than her usual doctor, and using a false name, she was all for it.”