In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

“Now shut up,” he says, jamming a finger through the air in my general direction, “and pack your shit.”

  I feel it again, sharp as a whip. I can’t stay here.

  Travis has betrayed me time and time again, and if I’m honest with myself, I know I’ve thought about packing my own bag on more than one occasion. Everyone wants to live here, on the coast, in this lavish neighborhood, where it’s nice and quiet, the perfect place to raise a family.

  But I don’t want to be in these glass walls anymore, on display for the world to see.

  Now that I think about it, I don’t think I ever really did. Travis picked this house. One day out of the blue, he’d pulled up in the driveway, dropped the keys in my lap, and said it was ours. It’d been the surprise of a lifetime, and everyone had said I was the luckiest woman in the world to be gifted a home like this.

  But it’s not mine. I’m simply one of Travis’s possessions in it, no more important than his piano, his bar, or his gun.

  Maybe, just maybe, I deserve something better.

  “What happens when we come back?” I ask as I fiddle with the zipper.

  He turns in the bathroom doorway. “What do you mean?”

  “Our problems are going to be waiting for us. The lack of trust, your constant need for control. Nothing is ever going to change, and I’m tired of it.”

  Closing the distance between us, Travis strides up to me and cups my chin in his hands. The gesture should be tender and soft, but fury brews in his eyes, and it scares me to death. I shake, swallow down the fear welling up inside me, and meet his gaze.

  “If I were you, Rachael,” he whispers, “I’d choose your next words wisely.”

  A ragged breath escapes from my lungs as I shy away from his touch. “I think you and I should—”

  “Careful,” he warns.

  “I think we should spend some time apart.”

  There, I said it. But I don’t feel free or relieved. I have the distinct sensation of jumping off a cliff and free-falling, my pulse skyrocketing as the ground beneath me closes in much too fast.

  “You think I killed her.” His upper lip curls in disgust. “You do. I see it in your eyes. You think those cops are following me because they know something you don’t.”

  “The only thing I know is what you tell me, and so far, you’ve told me nothing but lies. We’ve built this beautiful house on them, Travis, and the walls are cracking beneath the weight.” I clutch at my nightshirt and gasp for what little air is left in this room. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t stay up at night wondering about how many times you slept with Joanna behind my back, how many times you wished you were with her when you were next to me.” I’m steamrolling now, and there’s no coming back from this. “I can’t stop thinking about how many times you kissed me with the same mouth that kissed her, how many times you slept with her in the afternoon and me in the evening. I wish I were numb to all of this, Travis. But I—I can’t—it’s eating me away inside. I won’t live like this anymore, and I—”

  “Shh, you don’t know what you’re saying.” He drags me against him, burying my head in his chest despite my resistance. “Stop, Rachael. Just stop. I hate seeing you this way. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything.”

  I break away and stifle a laugh. Because he still doesn’t get it. “How about something you’ve never given me before?”

  “Name it.”

  “Loyalty and honesty.”

  I don’t look at him when I hitch my Louis Vuitton over my shoulder and strut out the bedroom door. I can’t. Because if I look at him now, I won’t have the strength to leave him.

  DETECTIVE SHAW

  It’s after dark when I turn in to Skyview Cemetery. I haven’t heard from Patel yet, which means the autopsy must be more complicated than we originally thought. He’s eager to rub my nose in the findings, so I’m sure he’ll call the instant he knows something conclusive. I’ve kept my phone’s volume on high all day to ensure I don’t miss his call.

  But it’s getting late. Surely he’s heard something by now….

  The cemetery grounds sit at the base of Montara Mountain with an unobstructed view of San Francisco Bay to the west, which is especially stunning with a blanket of stars draped overhead. I drive past the main office building and wind through the cemetery, zoning out, hating where this road leads. Manicured lawns. Fake flowers filling cement vases next to the headstones. Mausoleums housing flat-faced tombs. The grounds are beautiful, but I doubt anyone who visits gets much joy out of the landscaping.

  Inching along in first gear, I make a wide right turn and then a left, climbing toward the section with the newer graves. I’ve turned off my radio because it doesn’t feel right to be listening to upbeat music right now. I need to bask in the silence, to give myself the space to remember.

  Karen was healthy. Training for the Bay to Breakers footrace in the city. We’d recently bought her dream home in Half Moon Bay, and we were planning to start our family when she received the diagnosis. Our plans came crashing down.

  I don’t realize I’ve been parked until my dashboard lights up with a reminder that my headlights are still on. Switching them off, I sit still as stone, hands gripping the wheel.

  I haven’t visited Karen’s grave since we laid her in the ground last year, but time hasn’t dulled the stabbing pain in my chest. I’d thought, foolishly, that I’d come back daily. I’d gotten close a few times. Turned off the main road and driven along the path to where I sit now. But thinking about striding over the grass that covers her cold body has kept me from taking one step out of my car.

  Tonight, though, I need to do this. I need her.

  With a one-two-three count, I shove the door open and step out into the cold night air. The scent of freshly cut grass hits me, and I almost duck back into the car. There’s no one out here. It’s so quiet, every one of my thoughts feels like a scream in my brain.

  It would’ve been so much easier to stay in my car, the way I always have before.

  I weave around stones and nameplates smashed into the ground. My feet somehow know their way through the plush grass.

  There.

  A gray marker with an angel perched on top, its granite wings arched protectively around the sides of the stone. At the sight of it, I nearly break into a run in the other direction. My heart stings with grief and I don’t think I can do it.

  I crumple to my knees at the foot of her grave. I sit on the lawn for God knows how long, blinking back tears. My legs go stiff, and I think the grass is damp, soaking through my pants, but I couldn’t move if I tried.

  It feels as if I’ve been on a journey from hell for an entire year, and have just now returned home.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, pinching my eyes shut. “I’m not doing well without you. I know I said I would try to find a routine and get things back to normal, but I can’t. I need you more than I ever thought I would.”

  My thoughts tangle and unwind, and my throat aches.

  Because the silence is too heavy to bear, I talk about the case.

  “This one’s got me in knots, Karen. I wish you were here to help me, to show me where to look next. It’s one of those investigations you loved so much, where the answers aren’t black-and-white. There are all kinds of gray areas, questions that are still unresolved, and I don’t know what to do.”

  I begin to whisper the details of Joanna’s murder. I tell her about the Martins, Ravenwood’s staff, Michael, and Colleen, and the web of lies they’ve spun. I don’t hold back.

  “We had it all, didn’t we?” Plucking a handful of grass, I rub the blades around in my palm. “We didn’t need a million-dollar home or an expensive car to be happy. It was always me and you. Us against the world.”

  And we lost.

  I hang my head in defeat, overcome w
ith pain.

  “Give me a sign,” I beg. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  I wait for an answer, and then laugh bitterly because I realize it’ll never come. The temperature seems to have dropped a few degrees suddenly. I brace myself against the wind as I say a silent prayer. Brushing grass off my pants, I rise unsteadily. Clouds have moved in, covering the moon, drenching the cemetery in darkness. The coughing call of a raven splits the night air. I look up. I think I’m alone until I see the figure of a woman standing close to a headstone under the nearest oak.

  I hadn’t even heard her approach.

  She too is speaking to her deceased loved one. I don’t want to disturb the woman, but I’m going to have to pass by to get back to the car.

  Bowing my head, I stride through the grass, giving her a wide berth.

  The raven calls again, mockingly. I glance up at the sound. The bird has perched on top of the tombstone the woman is facing.

  And etched on the stone is the name Joanna Harris.

  Shock throttles me—Joanna’s not in the ground yet. I freeze, adjusting my eyes to the letters shadowed in the dark. Michael’s name is beside Joanna’s. There are no dates. The Harrises must’ve reserved their plot and purchased the headstone already. But when, exactly? Had Michael bought it last summer, around the time he claims she left him? That action alone would scream guilt.

  If I could only remember if the Harrises’ headstone had been there when Karen was buried. But I’d been so consumed by my grief, there’s no chance I would’ve noticed anything else.

  “Excuse me, who—” I stop. “Samara. What are you doing here?”

  It’s all I can muster under the circumstances. I hadn’t expected to run into anyone here, and I get the feeling Samara Graves feels the same way.

  “Detective Shaw.” She turns toward me slightly, the forced smile on her face betraying her lack of desire to speak with me. “I didn’t see you. What are you doing here?”

  “Seeking clarity.” My gaze skips to Karen’s headstone. “But I’m not sure I’ll ever find it.” I want to ask what she’s doing here, since Joanna isn’t in the ground yet, but at the last second, I think better of it. Grief defies reason. If this is where she feels closest to Joanna, so be it. It’s not the time or the place for questioning. “Have a good night.”

  As I walk away, Samara calls, “Are you close to figuring out who killed my friend?”

  I turn. “We’re taking our time,” I say. “We need to make sure we’re arresting the right person. Murder cases are serious. We have to be sure.”

  “You’re taking too long.” She rubs her hands together briskly. “If you still have questions for me, Detective, fire away. I’m an open book.”

  I look at the tombstone, searching for the raven that had first called my attention to Joanna’s grave, but it must’ve flown away. “I’m assuming this is where Joanna will be buried?”

  “It’s a beautiful spot, don’t you think?” Her eyes glitter at me.

  “It is.” That’s why I’d chosen it for Karen. “Do you know when the Harrises purchased this plot?”

  “Years ago.” Her gaze flickers to the stone, then back. “It’s not what you think. He didn’t purchase it alone. They chose their place together.” She’s much more observant than she lets on. “I’ve been thinking more about the conversation you and I had, when you asked if she had any enemies.”

  “You said that everyone loved her.”

  “Yes, that’s what got me thinking,” she begins, but stops. Her brittle voice softens. “Have you looked into the women’s clinic in the city? The one she visited last summer?”

  “We have.”

  “At first, Joanna hated going,” she says softly. “Despised the drive, the wait time, the fact that the woman would pray over her at the end of each session. But along the way something changed. She suddenly thought the world of her, couldn’t wait to go in again. ‘She’ll fix everything,’ she’d say, and then she’d laugh, as if she was the only one aware of some strange joke.”

  Had the sessions been grief counseling after her miscarriage? Or was she being treated for something else?

  “I think the counselor knows more than anyone what was going on with Joanna in her final few months—why she went to the clinic, who she may have been having problems with.”

  “I appreciate the tip,” I say. “Do you happen to have her name?”

  “She never told me the woman’s name. Just called her ‘my counselor.’ ”

  My brain races. I’ve already tried to look into employees at the women’s clinic, but Dr. Garcia resisted, threatening to call his lawyer. And Patel’s already flipped the hourglass, dropping sand faster than I can catch it. Unless I get something more concrete on this counselor, whoever she is, Patel isn’t likely to stall Michael’s arrest for another interrogation that may go nowhere.

  “Joanna was attached to anyone who gave her attention,” Samara continues, resting her hand on the headstone, caressing it with her fingertips. “She was desperate to be noticed, to be cared for, wanted, and envied by everyone around her. I think the counselor gave her those things. Joanna was the loneliest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Even though she had Mr. Harris?”

  Samara stares me down. “Mr. Harris was working such long hours, he wasn’t paying attention to her. When he was around, he was dismissive of her. He didn’t care about how she spent her days as long as she was the trophy on his arm. And she liked that, while it suited her. Eventually though, she wanted to be more. She didn’t want to be trapped in Ravenwood by herself, with nothing to occupy her time. She didn’t have many people she felt she could talk to.”

  “But she talked to you,” I point out.

  She nods. “And to that counselor. The odd thing is that Joanna didn’t even want children in the first place,” Samara says, rubbing her fingers over the rough granite. “Mr. Harris conveniently forgets that. He was the one who wanted the family, not her. Joanna never wanted children. She was still taking birth control, even though they argued all the time about it. Mr. Harris was furious when she started another pill cycle each month. And then, like a miracle, she was pregnant.”

  “She told you that?”

  Samara looks up at me, but her eyes seem dazed. I wonder if she’s taking medication. Or recreational drugs. “She finally compromised and told him she’d have one child. One, no more. When she lost that child, she really pulled back from him. I don’t believe that their marriage ever fully recovered.”

  “Did she happen to tell you who the—”

  “Father of the baby was?” she interrupts, smirking as if she’s enjoying the taste of the secret in her mouth. “Let’s just say the timeline didn’t match up for it to be Mr. Harris’s.” The raven calls out again, a single raspy bleat that draws our attention to the tree overhead. When Samara brings her gaze back down to me, her expression has softened.

  “But you didn’t answer my question, Samara.”

  “Joanna was almost certain it was Dean’s.”

  I want to believe her, but can I? Does she want me to suspect Dean Lewis, so I don’t look elsewhere? I was almost ready to close in on one of the Martins. Or does she want me to think Michael killed Joanna when he found out the child wasn’t his? I don’t understand her motivations—or what she’s gaining from this.

  “Does Dean Lewis know?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She gazes at the ground that’ll soon be Joanna’s final resting place. “He knew Joanna wouldn’t leave Mr. Harris unless he had something in his corner to persuade her. That baby was his bargaining chip. He believed he had a chance. He was wretched when she miscarried.”

  “I’m sure they both were.”

  “Oh, Joanna didn’t grieve, not for a second. She was physically ill for a week, and used the n
ext to process her feelings, to make her plan. You might not believe me if I told you, but she was thrilled when she lost the baby. Thrilled. The counselor told Joanna it was strange to be excited about losing a child. But then they realized it showed how she truly felt about having a baby in the first place. It was like she was given a second chance at life.”

  Her soft voice goes on relentlessly, and I feel as if, for the first time, I’ve glimpsed the real Joanna Harris.

  “Why did she keep the miscarriage a secret from her husband?”

  “To understand the answer to that question, you had to have known Joanna, and the type of woman she was. She got a strange thrill out of keeping things from the men in her life.” Samara crosses her arms in front of her, as if she were suddenly chilled to the bone. “The men she brought into her bed—they were pawns in her little game. And they loved her so much, they didn’t even care how they were being used. They gave her fancy cars, designer clothes, the perfect house, and in return, she made them feel powerful. As if they could control her.”

  She laughs sourly. “No matter what she made Dean or Travis believe, she was never going to divorce Mr. Harris. She was desperate to live the kind of life his money could offer and was willing to accept his controlling ways in exchange. He managed her the way he did his business. And having children was the one thing he desperately wanted from her. The only thing she had ultimate control over.” She waits two beats, and then: “Joanna believed that miscarriage was the best thing to ever happen to her. A gift from God. And whatever happened at the clinic in June, I think it had something to do with taking back control of her body. I don’t know if that’s helpful, but there you have it.”

  As she looks directly at me and purses her lips, my phone rings too loud in the darkness.

  “Enjoy the rest of your night, Detective,” she says.

  “Wait,” I call out, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “Samara, don’t go.”

  But she disappears into the night, as mysterious as she’d come. I check my phone’s screen. It’s Patel.