In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  Commandeering the swiveling stool beside me, he leans over and takes my hand. “I got halfway there before I realized I was being an idiot. I can’t miss this, and I’m—is that…?” We listen to the rhythmic pulsing of the baby’s heart echo through the room. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s our baby.”

  My heart bursts, right then and there, and I rest my hand on his cheek. “Yeah. That’s our baby.”

  “And here is your baby’s first picture.” Dr. Souza moves the wand over my stomach.

  “That’s the head,” Michael gasps, staring at the screen. “Look at that, Colleen. Look, he’s perfect. Is that his hand? Is he sucking his thumb?”

  Our tiny baby holds his hand to his mouth. “Looks that way,” Dr. Souza tells us.

  “He?” I ask Michael. “What if it’s a girl?”

  He squeezes my hand. “Then she’ll wrap me around her little finger the way you have, and I’ll love her for it.”

  This is the first time I’ve heard him talk about the baby this way, with tenderness in his eyes and a grin on his face, and it’s more than my heart can take. The tears keep coming. Michael catches them with his thumb and brushes them away.

  “Would you like to know the sex of the baby?” Dr. Souza asks softly.

  Before blurting out my answer, I look to Michael. His cheeks are pale, his eyes locked on the blurry image on the screen.

  “What do you think?” I ask him. “Do we?”

  He nods eagerly, and I’m thrilled we’re on the same page.

  Dr. Souza maneuvers the wand again. “From the looks of it, you’re having a boy.”

  “I knew it!” Michael exults, and then kisses me. “A boy!”

  After letting us ogle the images for another few minutes, Dr. Souza shuts the machine down. He shows us a roll of black-and-white photos printed on thin, glossy paper.

  “I’ll take those,” Michael says, grinning wide, as he holds them up to study them. “The baby’s first photo shoot. Unbelievable.”

  Yes, it is. Just when I thought I was going to be alone in all of this, going solo to my pregnancy appointments and keeping the joys and anxieties to myself, Michael shows up and makes everything right again.

  It isn’t possible that this man mistreated Joanna the way Dean and Samara suggested. This man is thoughtful, caring, and so deserving of a loving family. This man doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.

  “Come on.” Michael lifts his eyes from the gorgeous photos of our son, and takes my hand again. “Let’s go home and find a place for these.”

  DETECTIVE SHAW

  After Patel declined my request to add Rachael Martin to the growing list of suspects to follow, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If he couldn’t afford the manpower to tail her, I’d do it myself. Though I’d never tell him, I don’t think his decision had anything to do with the number of officers at the station.

  He’s already made up his mind about this case. He doesn’t want to consider another option.

  Nevertheless, I was at the station before dawn. I scooped up the keys to an unmarked cruiser, grabbed a quick cup of coffee, and made the short drive to Cypress Street. I parked a few houses down from the Martins’, and waited for the excitement of the day to begin.

  Despite the news vans still parked along the side streets, Point Reina felt abnormally quiet. Shortly before eight, a Mustang rounded the corner and skidded to a stop in front of Ravenwood. Dean exited the car and removed a few reusable grocery bags from the trunk before making his way inside. I thought the staff had Saturdays off….

  Usually, when the sun shows its face between storms, Point Reina is alive with activity. Especially on weekends. Most residents take advantage of the break in the weather and hit the beach. Dog walkers hike through the grove. Housekeepers whisk in and out of front doors, brooms and mops under their arms. Private chefs carry heaping bags of groceries into immaculate homes. Women in leggings strut down the sidewalk, pushing babies in strollers with one hand and chugging Starbucks with the other. But the parade seems to have been called off today, and somehow everyone but me received the memo.

  When the clock on the dash clicks over to noon, I tip back my coffee cup and drink the last cold drops of breakfast. I should’ve brought some food to tide me over. I suppose my eagerness—or frustration, perhaps—overruled my logic. Trying to ignore the growling in my stomach, I scan the street.

  Rachael’s Porsche Carrera, red as a cherry with the sun beating on it, is parked in her driveway. Travis’s car is either in the garage where I can’t see it, or he’s not home. Dean’s Mustang is still parked in front of Ravenwood. Strange…

  Exiting the cruiser, I head down the sidewalk toward the Martins’ glass home. Why they’d want a house where everyone could see what was happening at all hours of the day, even in their most relaxed moments, is beyond me.

  Today, though, their transparency suits my needs.

  I keep my pace slow as I walk by and peek inside. Rachael is curled up on one of the big couches, blond hair spilling over the edge of a pillow, a white blanket pulled up to her chin. A wine glass rests on the table in front of her, and even from here I can detect the blood-red remnants of her drink pooling at the bottom. A little early to be hitting the bottle, I muse. She must’ve had a rough Friday night.

  Movement near the grove catches my eye. It’s Colleen, striding down the steps that lead to the beach. I almost call out to her, but something warns me not to. Another glance into the Martins’ home tells me Rachael is still crashed on the couch. I’m here to keep tabs on her, not Colleen, but what are the chances she’ll wake up in the next few minutes?

  I follow Colleen, and run through all the case’s contradictions. Gold necklace with a religious symbol around her neck. Atheist. Struck in the back of the head. No murder weapon. Everyone loved her. But someone wanted her dead.

  Perhaps Patel is right. Perhaps I’m looking at the facts too closely to see any of them clearly. Studying the trees instead of the forest.

  I let my attention drift into the enormous canopy of the Monterey cypress grove. Killing time while I waited this morning, I did a quick Google search on my cell and learned that there are only two natural Monterey cypress groves in the world. The trees need moist weather and near-constant fog, which makes Point Reina a perfect fit. On days like today, when the sun shines through the tangled green canopy, it’s peaceful. Other days, like the day Joanna Harris’s body was discovered, dense fog wraps around the spindly branches, and the forest becomes eerie. As if something evil is lurking in it, beyond the line of sight.

  Moving toward the edge of the cliff, I peer down onto the narrow stretch of beach below. The sand is empty except for Colleen bending near the water’s edge. Her back is to me. She picks up something small and chucks it into the waves. Her blue dress whips around her, catching around her beautiful legs as she repeats the motion again and again. She’s barefoot. Her dark hair flies about her face. Her belly is really starting to swell now; it won’t be long until she’s holding a baby in her arms.

  Zigzagging down the wooden stairs, I call her name into the wind.

  She turns, her face glowing. Then her shoulders slump as if she’s disappointed that I’ve ruined her alone time. “Detective Shaw! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I could say the same for you.” I stand firm on the bottom stair, mere inches from the sand. “Are you headed back up?”

  Cradling a hand beneath her belly, she picks up a rock, analyzes its curves, then throws it into the sea. “I don’t think so. Michael called Dean in today, and he’s not finished yet. He’s roasting lamb for a late lunch. Joanna’s favorite, of course.”

  There’s an unmistakable chill to her tone.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure,” she agrees easily. But she strides in the other dire
ction, down the beach toward the tide pools.

  “Damn it,” I mumble, staring at the sand.

  With a groan, I heel off my shoes at the bottom of the stairs, roll off my socks, and shove them into the toes of the shoes. I fold up the bottom of my slacks until they’re bunched at the knees. And then I head down, letting my feet sink into the plush mounds of sand. It’s warm on my feet, and although the heat feels good, the damn sand has already worked its way between my toes.

  I catch up with Colleen minutes later. She doesn’t seem bothered by the sand at all. It’s covering her feet and ankles, inching up her calves. Hand protectively cupping her stomach, she crouches at the water’s edge and picks up another rock. I stay quiet, watching her roll it in her palm. It’s white and smooth, with a faint purple marking around its edge.

  “Purple is a strange color to find out here,” she says, looking up at me. I keep forgetting how very pretty she is. “What do you think caused it?”

  “The algae. That rock was most likely chipped off a boulder, and it banged against another rock covered in the stuff. It’s smooth because of the beating it’s taken.” I’d learned that fact from Karen—she loved the beach. She found the ocean calming and peaceful. I’ve always found the sand a pain and the water too cold, too turbulent.

  Colleen makes a small, satisfied sound. “Its beauty comes from its struggle.”

  “I suppose you could look at it like that.”

  Karen used to say the flattest, smoothest rocks skipped the best. I find a rock of my own to throw into the water.

  “I can relate to this little guy.” She holds the purple-stained rock in her hand, stroking her fingers over its curves. She doesn’t look at me. “You’ve looked into my background, haven’t you? You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I know you grew up in a series of foster homes. That’s about all.”

  Even though I know a little bit more, I don’t divulge it now. I’d rather hear what she has to say about her past. People reveal the skeletons in their closets when they feel trusting and unguarded.

  “It was hard without my parents,” she says. “It’s hard to explain to someone how important it is to feel wanted, to feel loved unconditionally, unless that person has felt the same void.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, because I know too well the void she’s talking about.

  I pick up another rock. This time, I hand it to her. A peace offering of sorts.

  She smiles sweetly as the wind sweeps tendrils of hair back from her face. She’s definitely a beauty—I can see what Michael sees in her. There’s lightness to her. A spark gleaming in her eyes.

  “Adversity must’ve taught you to be strong,” I say.

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” She pauses, and then, “But I was never strong enough to tell the difference between a good guy and one who wanted to hurt me.” She flings the rock I’d given her into the water. “I walked an awful, broken road to get to Ravenwood.”

  “Does Mr. Harris know about your past?”

  “Michael knows the basics, and that’s enough. From the start, we made a conscious decision to keep the past behind us and only focus on the present.”

  If Michael beat his wife to death and buried her across the street, he happened upon the perfect woman to replace her—one who didn’t want anyone digging into her past, either.

  “Are you happy?” I ask without thinking. The personal nature of the question surprises me. I’m equally surprised by my desire to know the answer.

  “I am.” She eyes me carefully before stooping down to pluck another rock from the sand. “I’ve known from the moment I met Michael that his heart rules him. Morally, he’s solid, right to his core. He treats me like I’m special, and I’ve never felt that, not once in my life. And I can offer him things he’s always wanted, things no one has been able to give him before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Our child.” She smiles when my eyes go to her growing belly. “Listen, Detective, I heard something yesterday—something you should know that might help you with your investigation.” She turns, stepping through wet sand as her dress billows behind her. “I’m not sure how to say it, exactly.”

  For the first time since we’ve been talking, Colleen seems fidgety. She drops the rock into the waves and clasps her hands in front of her. Her eyes shift from the surf to me and back again. What could possibly have her more on edge than talking about the demons from her childhood?

  “Take all the time you need,” I say.

  She blows out a shaky breath and starts to walk. I keep pace beside her. “Samara told me that Joanna miscarried her child in May, and then went to a women’s clinic in June or July, though she didn’t know the reason for the visits. Joanna didn’t want to tell anyone—not even Michael, if you can believe it. To keep the secret, Samara told her to choose a different name, so she could be treated under complete anonymity. I just thought—I knew you’d figure it out eventually, and I—well, I thought you should know as soon as I did.”

  My skin prickles. “It was her.”

  Mandy McKnight. Joanna.

  “Samara said she was the one who took Joanna to her appointments. Michael doesn’t know about the clinic visits at all,” Colleen continues. “If you think about it, he’s the true victim in all this.”

  I hear the pleading in her voice, but I can’t agree with her.

  Not yet.

  MICHAEL

  “You almost ready, Coll?” I check my watch. “I don’t mind being fashionably late, but this is pushing it. I need to make sure the staff is handling everything properly.”

  Tonight’s the five-year anniversary of Harris Financial. We’ve come a long way, hustled until our feet hurt, worked until our eyes burned, and we’ve created a successful company. At least on the outside. If any of my employees knew the truth about our declining accounts and bad investments, it’d be a different story.

  If it weren’t for the insurance money I’m about to receive from Joanna’s death, I’d probably be giving layoff notices rather than hosting a party at the Point Reina Distillery.

  I’m equally relieved and disgusted by the thought.

  I hear Colleen fussing with something in the bathroom and call out to her a second time.

  “One more minute,” she says. “I promise I’ll be worth the wait.”

  “You always are.”

  Things have turned around between us since yesterday’s ultrasound. Overall, the mood in Ravenwood has shifted. Colleen seems happier, and from the way she snored last night, I’d say she’s sleeping better too.

  I understand why she’s worried about my reluctance to attach to her or the baby—she’s afraid I’ll pull away in the end—but I simply needed time. When Joanna left me, I was devastated. But what made my world crumble to the ground was the fact that I’d invested so much time, energy, and hope in our baby. And it wasn’t even mine. I simply couldn’t let myself get wrapped up so easily this time. I had to protect myself.

  The investigation and media circus have been the greatest tests of all. All this week, I expected Colleen to doubt me, or just walk out. But she’s stuck by my side. Through thick and thin.

  “I’m ready,” she calls, and emerges from the master bathroom, hands raised from her sides. “What do you think?”

  The breath catches in my throat. She’s wearing a black, old-fashioned dress, like something from the twenties, covered in beading and tassels. Some kind of sheer material barely conceals her shoulders. Her hair is sleek in front, parted on the side, and pinned into a feminine roll near the bottom of her hairline. Her lips are glossy red, her eyes smoky, her eyelashes thick and black. As she spins, I get a clear look at her growing belly stretching the dress’s slinky material.

  “Well?” she demands, beaming at me. She’s as delighted as
a child.

  I can’t formulate a single word. Does she know? She couldn’t….How could she? There are no pictures of Joanna at last year’s anniversary party. Who would put her up to this? Samara? Travis? Dean?

  The dress could be the exact same one Joanna wore that night.

  Black and beaded, yes. Knee-length, I’m sure of it. Joanna had decided on a twenties vibe, her hair drawn up, her lips blood-red. She’d insisted I wear a pinstripe tux, with a red rose on the lapel, to match her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Colleen’s smile falters.

  “Did you get that from—never mind.” I must be mistaken.

  “What?” Her face scrunches in confusion. “Is it bad? Should I change?”

  “No,” I force out, my voice suddenly hoarse. “You’re stunning. You took my breath away, that’s all.”

  It’s not a lie. My chest is tight, my heart is pounding. Should I ask her to change? We don’t have time—we’re already late—and I fear telling her to pick another outfit would dampen her spirits and ruin the whole night.

  Shaking my head to clear away images of Joanna, I step forward and wrap Colleen in my arms. “You were right. Absolutely worth the wait.”

  But then I breathe in, and—Joanna. Joy again. Is she doing this on purpose? The perfume makes Colleen smell powdery, fresh, and sweet as a rose. But the scent is disturbingly familiar. Did she raid Joanna’s bedroom, taking the dress from her closet, just the way she took the perfume from her vanity?

  “You look handsome.” Pulling away, she gives a short tug on my lapels. She’s smiling again, pleased. “Are you ready?”

  For a second, I think she’s going to suggest I pin a flower there, right where Joanna had insisted I wear one. And suddenly I’m feeling like I’ve slipped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  I need a drink.