In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  “Let’s go,” I say, a little too harshly, and Colleen glances up at me, surprised.

  The reporters are there, as always, snapping pictures as we step out front. Microphones are shoved at us as we face a barrage of questions about Joanna, about the investigation. Tonight, we elbow through without a word, and by the time we turn the corner onto Beach Street, miraculously, we’re alone again.

  It’s quiet tonight, I notice as we walk to the Point Reina Distillery. All I can hear is the soft rush of waves hitting sand and Colleen’s heels striking the sidewalk. It’s nearly eight and pitch-dark, with only the glare of the crescent moon and the dim glow of the streetlamps to light our way. The air is crisp and cool on my skin.

  “I wanted to talk to you before we went in,” I say as we move together through the parking lot. “Travis and Rachael were formally disinvited from the party tonight.”

  “I think that was a good call.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to show up.”

  She glances up at me. “Do you really think they would?”

  “They might. I’ve hired security so no reporters or unwanted guests can get in, but I wanted you to be aware, just in case.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” she says after a beat, and then, “Michael, this is the first time most of your employees will see us together. Are you worried about that at all?”

  I hadn’t thought about it, but she’s right. We’d kept our relationship secret for the few months Colleen still worked for me—up until she could no longer hide her baby bump—and then she quit, before anyone could ask questions.

  “No,” I say finally. “Unless they’ve been in a cave, they’ve seen the news reports. They know we’re together, and I really don’t care what they have to say about it at this point. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She shivers, squeezing her eyes closed. “I’m not worried. Just nervous, I guess.”

  “There’s no reason to be, sweetheart.”

  Right before we go inside, she stops me and tugs me down to her. As her lips press against mine, a draft of cool sea air sweeps up the cliff, carrying Joanna’s scent straight to my nose. I could be kissing her. I’ve been in this exact place, on this exact night, kissing my wife, who happened to look exactly the way my pregnant girlfriend does now.

  I pull away with a curse. “Come on, we’re late.”

  Because if I don’t get whiskey flowing through my system within the next few seconds, I’m going to combust.

  COLLEEN

  Dinner goes so smoothly, I’m almost shocked.

  No one mentions Joanna or her murder. There’s not one awkward silence or uncomfortable situation. Conversation is flowing. Music is playing. And Don is working overtime, keeping the distillery open late for us. As the hours roll by, I’m thankful for security at the door. Three reporters posing as employees tried to sneak inside, and it wasn’t until they were asked to show proper identification that they gave up and left.

  There’s been no sign of Rachael or Travis, which is a blessing considering that I wouldn’t know what to say to either of them.

  After dinner, I break away from my conversation with the head of Harris Financial’s marketing department and search for Michael. Instinctively, I head toward the bar. He’s been hovering there most of the night, talking with Don rather than his employees.

  “Hey,” I say, kissing him on the cheek before taking the stool next to him. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No, not at all.” He flinches as if he’s suddenly disgusted by something, then turns toward the bar. “Have you ever had déjà vu, Don?”

  He shakes a martini. “I have.”

  “Me too.” Michael buries his chuckle in a long drink. “Seems like every time I turn around—wham! I’ve been here before, in this exact moment.” Slamming his palm on the bar, he whirls toward me, eyes wide, as if he just now realized I’m sitting next to him. “Colleen, sweetheart, have you met Don?”

  “I don’t think so.” I take his hand. “I’m Colleen Roper, Michael’s girlfriend.”

  “Mother of my son,” Michael slurs, lifting his drink to toast himself. “She’s a special one.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Don smiles shyly and goes back to mixing a fruity drink. “Nice to meet you, Colleen.”

  As I order another virgin daiquiri, a security guard approaches Michael and rests a hand on his shoulder. They talk briefly, though the music is so loud I can’t hear what’s being said. Michael slides off the barstool.

  “I’ll be back in a flash,” he says, patting my thigh. “Need to step outside for a moment. Order me another?”

  And then he follows the security guard to the main room where the rest of his employees are enjoying dessert.

  “He’s had a lot to drink tonight,” Don remarks, sliding to my side of the bar. “More than usual. Make sure he gets home safely?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve seen you, out and about.” He starts washing a line of dirty glasses one of the waitresses has set on the bar. “You go for a walk through the grove and down to the beach every morning.”

  “Yeah, I do.” I’ve been going down to the trails first thing every day to think, and try to relax. “Have you been following me?” I tease.

  “Nah.” He punches buttons on the register to clear a tab. “You know the bench near the cliff? The one overlooking the tide pools?”

  I nod. It’s black wrought iron and sits off the beaten path, a few feet from the groomed part of the trail.

  “I like to go there to clear my head before work. It’s peaceful. Stay there long enough, right in the thick of the grove, and you become a part of nature.” He mixes vodka and tomato juice. “You wouldn’t believe the things I see and hear. It’s like people don’t even know I’m there.”

  I swivel on my stool and scan the room. I hardly know anyone here. After all, I only worked for Michael’s company a few months. I mostly kept to myself. Even now, I prefer Don’s company to anyone in the main party room, especially now that Michael has stepped outside.

  I think about the bench Don likes. It’s not far from where Joanna’s body was found.

  I wonder…

  “Did you know Joanna?” I ask, keeping my voice as casual as I can.

  He slides the Bloody Mary down the bar to the waitress waiting to fulfill an order. “Oh yeah. Everyone knew Joanna. Came in all the time.”

  “With Michael?”

  “Michael. Rachael. Travis. That woman might’ve been friends with everyone in town.”

  “Well, not everyone,” I blurt, and instantly regret saying it. “It’s a terrible thing that happened to her.”

  Don bends beneath the counter and comes up with another shaker. “Seems to have worked out for you in the end, though.”

  I frown. “What do you mean by that?’

  “Just that you seemed to benefit from her loss, that’s all.” He puts his hands up in surrender. “Hey, that came out wrong. I don’t mean to imply—all I mean is, I see the way you and Michael look at each other. You’re happy, and now you’re starting a family. If Joanna hadn’t been killed, you two would’ve never gotten together. You wouldn’t have had any of this, including your baby.”

  I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have brought up Joanna.

  “It is a strange thing, though,” Don says, after he takes another order.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You look just like her.” He meets my gaze head on. “Especially tonight.”

  I force a tight smile as my skin shrinks over my bones. “It was great meeting you, Don. Please excuse me.”

  I find Michael outside, talking to the security guards.

  “I want the police here. Now,” Michael rasps. His finger c
omes so close to the guard’s nose, he nearly flicks it. “Pick up your little walkie-talkie and call Detective Patel. He’ll come by, ask them all kinds of questions, and then they’ll be the ones on the news. Travis is the one they should be investigating anyway. That bastard could’ve been the one who killed Joanna. Do you hear me? He could’ve killed my wife! They should be looking into him!”

  My wife.

  A part of me dies inside.

  He stumbles, and the guard next to him steadies him. Michael jerks away. He doesn’t even realize how drunk he is.

  “Hey, honey,” I say, brushing my hand up and down his back. “Everything okay out here?”

  Spinning around, he struggles to focus on my face. “No, Coll, everything is not okay. Travis and Rachael came by, but these idiots didn’t call the police like I instructed them to, so now I have to do it myself.”

  “Did something happen? Did they cause a scene?”

  “No, but Travis could be a cold-blooded killer, Colleen! Can’t have someone like that roaming around. We need to make it clear they’re not welcome anywhere around us. All eyes need to be on them.”

  He’s out of control. As he removes his phone from his jacket pocket, punching random buttons, he starts to sway again.

  “You’re right,” I say, sliding the phone from his fingers. “Here, let me call for you, honey.” While I pretend to dial, I turn to the guard. “Did they damage anything? Cause trouble of any kind?”

  He shakes his head.

  I put the phone to my ear and make a fake call to the station. Looking rather pleased, a tight-lipped smile stretched across his face, Michael folds his arms across his chest and waits for me to explain the results of the call.

  “There,” I say. “The detectives got the message. What do you say we head home? That way, if the police show up, we’re out of their way.”

  “But the party.” He tries to point toward the door, but loses his balance and points to the parking lot instead. “I should tell everyone I’m leaving. They’ll want to know. I should say goodbye—”

  “They’ll be fine. As long as you’re picking up the bar tab, no one really cares if you’re there.”

  As he scoffs, the guards laugh, and one of them says, “True story.”

  “So come on.” I link my arm through his and nuzzle into his shoulder. “Take me to bed.”

  At that, Michael salutes the guards military-style and marches home, leaning heavily on my arm to steady himself. The second the front door shuts behind us, Michael pins me against the wall. He’s all sloppy lips and fumbling hands, but my heart leaps when he kisses me. He hasn’t made a move like this since I came to Ravenwood. We stumble up the stairs and down the hall, kicking the bedroom door open and laughing like teenagers as he pushes me onto the bed. I land with a squeal, undressing fast, flinging the beaded dress to the floor. But when he tries to take off his pants, he falls face-first, right on top of me, and laughs into a snort.

  He’s a wreck.

  It’s not going to happen tonight. As he fumbles with his shoes and pants, my heart sinks. He’s going to pass out the second his head hits the pillow.

  With a groan, he crawls onto his side of the bed and collapses. “I’mso—sorry,” he slurs, his face mashed against the pillow. “Ihadtoomany.”

  “Shh.” I run my fingers through his hair and earn a deep, satisfied sigh in response. “It’s all right, darling. Sleep now.”

  A pleasant realization hits me. We don’t pretend to be perfect like Travis and Rachael, but that’s okay. We don’t have to. I can be paranoid, self-conscious, and stick my foot in my mouth more often than I’d like to admit. Michael can work too hard, drink too much, and be a little possessive. In the end, we’re perfect for each other.

  “You looked beautiful tonight,” he whispers, his breath slow. “So beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This time was better than last time. No Travis, that’s why.” He yawns, loud and obnoxious, like a big bear. “You smelled good too. And your dress.” He makes a pleasant moaning sound. “Nice.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, nestling into the crook between his shoulder and his chest. “Now get some sleep.”

  He’s quiet for a few minutes, his chest rising and falling. I listen to the soft thumping of his heart beneath my cheek.

  “Good night, Joanna,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

  DETECTIVE SHAW

  Thanks to Colleen, we’ve finally had a breakthrough in the case. We now know Joanna Harris walked into the women’s clinic in June posing as Mandy McKnight. Considering she’d miscarried a month earlier, it shouldn’t have had anything to do with her pregnancy, but then, why?

  I stare at my screen and realize I’m still searching for a needle in a haystack. And I don’t know even know what the needle looks like. It keeps pricking the edges of my mind, so I know it’s there…somewhere. I have to keep digging.

  Why am I finding it so much harder to do my work without Karen at my side? Is it this case in particular—the first high-profile homicide since she was taken from me—or is every case going to be this way from now on?

  We need to know who last saw Joanna alive. Clearing my throat, I push papers across my desk and straighten out the notes I’ve taken regarding the month of July last year. I create a timeline and work my way through it.

  On July sixteenth, Michael and Joanna’s wedding anniversary and the day she went missing, Michael claims he only saw her in the morning. He’d worked long hours that day and made dinner plans for them that night, but she never showed. He’d received her final text instead.

  His story is clear-cut and hasn’t changed.

  “All right,” I think aloud, sifting through my notes. “You went to Pilates that morning and had a blowout with Rachael. Let’s assume you were killed on the evening of July sixteenth, after you sent that text to your husband. Where were you between those times, Joanna? Who were you with?”

  I run through everything backward.

  The last call Joanna made was to Gary Danko’s restaurant at six o’clock in the evening. I already called. Asked them to check their reservation log. There was nothing listed under Michael’s or Joanna’s name. The Harrises’ bank account doesn’t reflect a charge from the restaurant, either. We checked under the name Mandy McKnight too, in case Joanna had gotten into the habit of using that alias. Again, nothing.

  “Why,” I mumble, snatching the Rubik’s Cube from my desk, “would you call the restaurant in the first place?”

  To make a future reservation she ultimately decided against? To check if someone was there?

  I quickly shift sides of the cube around as my thoughts race.

  Maybe someone else picked up the bill….

  “You had a date,” I whisper, fingers curling around the toy. “You went with someone. Someone who wasn’t your husband.”

  On instinct alone, I search the number for the restaurant online and make the call.

  “Good morning,” a woman says cheerfully. “Thank you for calling Gary Danko, this is Lisa, how can I help you?”

  “Good morning, Lisa.” I’m about to introduce myself properly when, mid-breath, I flip my approach. If I admit I’m a detective, she’s going to be wary about revealing sensitive information, especially when I can’t show her proper ID. She’ll be guarded and give away little or nothing, and then I’ll have to drive into the city. But Patel’s on his way over to meet with me. I can’t leave the station now. “I have an odd question, and I was hoping you could help me.”

  “I’ll try,” she says. But her voice has turned wary.

  “Last July, I took my wife to dinner for our wedding anniversary. The food was amazing, the staff exceptional, and we had a terrific time. The night was really special to her, but you see, I can’t remember the name of the r
estaurant. It’s near Ghirardelli Square, I know that much, but other than that, I’m at a loss. I’ve been searching online, but haven’t had much luck. If I ask her, I’m afraid she’ll suspect that I’m planning something for her. Do you understand?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Her birthday is coming up,” I go on, “and I’d love to surprise her with another fabulous night at her favorite restaurant. Do your reservation logs go back to July?”

  I already know they do.

  “Yes, sir. Would you like me to check whether you made reservations with us?”

  Gotcha. “That’d be great. The name is Dean Lewis.”

  “Hold on, please. July of last year, correct?”

  “That’s right.” I shift a few more slides of the cube.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You said Lewis? Nothing under that name.”

  “What about Martin? Travis Martin?”

  The line goes quiet. “Yes, sir. Reservation for July sixteenth. Seven o’clock, quiet table for two.”

  Jackpot. “All right, thank you, Lisa, you’ve been so helpful.”

  “Would you like to make another reservation for your wife at this time?”

  “No, thank you,” I say as Patel strides through the door. “Have a great day.”

  Yanking at his tie, Patel heads straight for the coffee machine and fills the largest mug we have. “Michael Harris is on his way. Should be here any minute.”

  “You called him in?”

  “No, this was on him.” He reaches for the sugar. “He says he has something to tell us.”

  “What time is the autopsy?”

  “Four.” He checks the time on his phone. “I put a rush on the toxicology, too. Should be ready shortly after. I’ll let you know as soon as we have the results. What’ve you been working on?”

  “Well,” I say, clutching the half-finished cube in one hand as I give my arms a stretch. “Although Joanna’s final text was to her husband, her final phone call was to Gary Danko’s, to confirm a dinner reservation that Travis made sometime earlier for July sixteenth.”