After rummaging through my purse for my cell, I check the business card lying on the seat and dial Dean’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.
“Hey, Dean, this is Colleen,” I say, a tremor in my voice. “God, I don’t know what to do. They arrested Michael for Joanna’s murder, but I—I think I know how she was killed, and Michael didn’t do it. Can you meet me at Ravenwood in an hour? Please? I really need to talk to you in person. One hour, all right?”
And then, necessities in hand, I scurry into Dean’s garage before I lose the courage to follow through with this.
* * *
As I wait for Dean at Ravenwood, I put the kettle on the stove and think about what I’ve learned this past week. Michael’s lifestyle seemed so enticing from the outside—luxurious cars, a beautiful home, a successful business—but now, I couldn’t care less about how glamorous my life could be. Without Michael, those things aren’t worth the dirt that’ll cover Joanna’s grave.
Pulling two mugs from the cabinet, I watch for the headlights of Dean’s car to sweep across the windows. A part of me fears he won’t show, but I know what Dean cares most about—who he cares most about. Dean needs to keep everything perfectly on schedule and consistent: his sacred breakfast routine, his carefully prepared dishes. But he couldn’t place Joanna in the neat, orderly box of his life, especially when their affair didn’t go as he’d planned. So she paid for it.
Soon, everyone will know how vile Dean truly is, how deep his obsession with Joanna ran.
It’s time to prove he’s not only skilled with a knife, but with a shovel.
When lights beam into the kitchen, I take a shaky breath. I press the record button on my phone. This is what I have to do. Sliding my phone into my back pocket, I return to my position behind the counter and fill the two mugs with boiling water.
I hear his car door slam shut, and when I don’t see his form cross the window, I realize he’s planning on entering through the back, as he always does.
Moving fast, I drop a tea bag into each mug and then doctor them to my liking. See if he enjoys being served without being asked. A splash of milk and a teaspoon of honey. And then, I fish the tiny, rolled-up Ziploc bag out of the drawer beside the sink. I tip the white, ground-up contents into his tea, rinse out the bag in the sink, and toss it in the trash. Dean won’t taste the Restoril, but the drug will hit his system soon.
I only hope I spiked it enough to finish the job.
Michael will never know the lengths I’ve gone to secure a happy future for us, but if he ever finds out, I’d like to think he’d thank me for this. For freeing him, in every sense of the word.
“Hello?” Dean storms inside, bringing the wind and rain with him into the kitchen. “Colleen?”
“Oh, Dean, I’m so glad you came!” I lay it on thick and embrace him in a tight hug. It’s the first time I’ve made such a gesture, and he registers the strangeness by stiffening in my arms. His raincoat is spattered with rain. “They arrested Michael—he’s gone.”
“I got your message and came as fast as I could,” he says, patting my back awkwardly. “They think he killed Joanna? I have to admit, the thought had crossed my mind that he’d—”
“This whole situation has just gotten so far out of control,” I interrupt as a shudder rolls through me. I can’t let him finish what he was about to say. Not when I’m recording his every word. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. They came and handcuffed him, and everything.”
Gripping me by the shoulders, Dean holds me at arm’s length. “You said you know how Joanna was killed.” His voice is raw with worry.
“Can we sit down—would that be all right? I think my body’s pumping too much adrenaline or something, and I’m suddenly not feeling well. I made tea. Would you mind sitting with me, just for a minute? Once my head stops spinning, I’ll tell you everything. Here,” I say, and quickly push the tea laced with something extra special toward him. “I took the liberty of making yours. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine.”
He removes his wet coat and hangs it on the rack, as I take a seat on the opposite side of the island.
“I just want to know what’s going on.” He takes a sip of the tea, and grimaces. “You added honey?” he asks skeptically.
“Mmm.” I drink my own tea heartily, watching him over the lip of the mug. The milk and honey add the perfect hint of sweetness, but the sour look on Dean’s face is even sweeter. “It’s the way I’ve always taken my tea. Thought you’d like it.”
He frowns, but takes another sip. “I assume Mr. Harris will be out of jail by tomorrow morning?”
I shake my head and stare into my drink for answers that aren’t there. “I have no idea,” I say weakly.
“Didn’t you call a lawyer?”
“I left a message.”
“Surely Mr. Harris has enough in your accounts to cover the bail to get him out—oh, wait,” he says with a grin. “Let me guess….Mr. Harris wanted complete control over the finances, too? Some things never change. This time it came back to bite him. I assume if you had the money on your own, he’d already be out by now.”
“I’m doing all I can under the circumstances,” I whimper. “I feel like I’m rattling apart. I haven’t eaten anything all day, and—”
“You haven’t eaten?” He glares. “Are you completely incapable of caring for yourself? Ugh. I’ll cook while you talk.”
“I’m sorry I’m not more prepared,” I say. “I appreciate your help so much….” I choke back a sob.
With a disgusted huff, he searches the refrigerator and cupboards. “Spaghetti will have to do. It’s the fastest thing I can make with what we have here.”
He opens the wine cellar door and flips on the light.
“Wait,” I say. “Where are you going?”
“The recipe calls for red wine.” He points down the stairs. “Is that a problem?”
“I’m pregnant.” I caress the curves of my stomach. “I can’t have wine.”
“It’s for flavor. The alcohol burns off in the cooking. Besides, a little wine wouldn’t hurt you.”
He finishes his tea and sets down the mug. Then he disappears down the stairs and returns a few minutes later with a bottle. Pulling zucchini, onion, and tomato from the fridge, he sets everything on the counter next to the stove and pours oil in the pan. He spins the burner dial to high, checks the flame, and then waits for the oil to bubble.
“All right, you said you knew how Joanna was killed.” Sliding a knife from the block, he chops the vegetables with rapid, erratic slices. “Let’s hear it.”
“You and Joanna were close near the end, weren’t you?”
He nods. But he’s frowning now, rubbing his hand over his eyes as if the big, gleaming kitchen were suddenly enveloped in fog. “I was one of the only people she trusted.”
“Well, then I’m sure you know about her visits to the women’s clinic in June, and what happened to her near the end.”
“What did that maid tell you?” he grunts. “Because you can’t believe half of it.”
As the oil spits, he slides toward the sink to wash his hands. Reaching for the soap, he grasps nothing but air. He chuckles darkly before trying to pump out the suds again. The Restoril is working fast. He’ll be out on the couch in twenty minutes, maybe less.
“Joanna was happy when she lost the baby, Dean.”
He wags a spatula at me. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.” He’s starting to slur his words.
“I’m not.” My heartbeat strums in my ears. “It wasn’t a rumor Samara told me, either. It’s the truth. The detectives have probably figured it out by now too. Joanna didn’t even want the baby in the first place.”
“The detectives didn’t know her, and you didn’t either, for that
matter. How could any of you determine how she felt about the baby?” Dropping the dish towel on the counter beside the stove, he spins toward me, staggering a little. “She wanted that child because it was ours—hers and mine.”
He pauses, eyeing me for some kind of shocked reaction. When I don’t respond, he continues, “The baby was our future, and she was distraught when she lost it. Distraught!” He swipes sweat from his forehead. “Christ, I can’t see straight.”
“You’re wrong, Dean.” I take a deep breath and steady myself for the final blow. “What happened at the clinic explains everything, and shows her true feelings about the pregnancy.”
“What?” The word explodes out of him. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“She had her tubes tied in July. So she couldn’t get pregnant again.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean sways into the counter. “But I don’t—why would—you’re wrong. You don’t know anything.”
“Once you see the autopsy results, you’ll see that I’m right. She lied to you, Dean. She didn’t want your baby, and she took matters into her own hands to ensure she’d never get pregnant again. You were never going to have a family with her.”
“Noooo. She was going to run away with me, and leave him and—it wasn’t supposed to end this way.”
I need to bait him further. “Don’t you see? After everything that’d happened, she was going to stay with Michael. She chose Michael over you.”
“No,” he seethes. “She chose wealth, and where did that get her? Buried in the mud in the goddamn grove. She should’ve stayed with me, married me, had my child. If she’d done that, she would still be alive. Oh, Joanna,” he moans.
I slide off the stool so I’m able to run if he charges. There’s no telling what he’ll do in his dazed state. I glance around the room for something I can use to defend myself if he comes after me. A wine opener? Whiskey glasses? If I could get past him, I could make a run for the knives in the block near the stove.
“I get why you lost control,” I say, stepping slowly away from the island. “Michael wins for beating his wife. And you lose for loving her.”
Clutching his head, he sways back, back, back, and bumps into the stove. Behind him, oil simmers in the blistering-hot pan. “She was supposed to leave with me—the sixteenth, that was the day we’d planned. She was going to leave that bastard on their anniversary. But then she said she couldn’t do it. I went numb, and I can’t remember, but I thought that I—I thought I might’ve…”
“What, Dean?” I ask, hanging on his every word. “What’d you do?”
“I drank myself stupid. Crawled back begging, but Joanna wouldn’t listen. Said it was over for good. I don’t remember the rest of that day, but honestly I’m—I’m glad she’s dead. I’m glad it happened, Lord forgive me. I’m glad.”
Bingo. I’ve nailed him. The police will see that Dean, drunk and in a blind rage, murdered Joanna on the day they were supposed to run away together.
His legs buckle, and he stumbles, grasping at the counter for balance. “What’s happening…”
At that, I race for the knives. He pitches forward, blocking my path. “Stay away from me, Dean. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done, I swear. Please don’t hurt me.”
“What are you talking about? What’s happ—” His eyes open abnormally wide, as if he’s having trouble focusing. He snatches the mug, stares into the bottom, and swipes his thumb over the rim. “Colleen, you crazy bitch, what’d you put in here?”
“Dean, you’re ill, and—”
“Tell me!”
I put my hands up in defense as he lurches toward me. This is bad—he was supposed to pass out after the confession. “Stop, Dean, you’re scaring me. It was only tea. You need to leave, okay? You’re ill. Just go home, and we’ll sort this all out tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He stops before he reaches me, gasping as if he can’t breathe. “Not until you tell me what’s happening.”
He lunges at me again and staggers when our bodies collide. He loses his balance as our arms tangle. He’s heavy, hanging on my shoulders and clawing at my arms as he struggles to regain his footing. I’m not strong enough to hold up his weight.
“Get off, Dean, you’re hurting me! Let me go, or I’ll—”
“Tell me what you did! I swear to God I’ll beat you until—”
“I tell you what you want to hear?” Fear sears through me. “Is that right? Just the way it happened with Joanna.”
It’s worked so perfectly: my plan, and his confession. But as I squirm, he only holds tighter. I want to call for help, but we’re alone in Ravenwood, and no one will hear me anyway over the deafening storm. My feet skid against the tile as we grapple. We’re too close to the stairs, to the wine cellar. His face is close to mine, his pupils shrunken and nostrils flaring. Sweat beads at his temples. I’ve pushed him too far, and now there’s no going back. I hadn’t planned for him to become so violent. Who knows what Dean could do to me in this state?
A pop sounds from the stove. Dean doesn’t seem to hear. He doesn’t see the sparks fly from the burner and catch on the dish towel.
I gasp as flames engulf the cloth. Writhing against him, twisting in his hold, I fight for air and space and with one hard push, I jerk out of his embrace. I expect my body to slam against wood, but there’s only air. My feet slip down the stairs, into the depths of the wine cellar. I land with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through my chest. My head snaps back against the floor. Numbness spreads from my legs into the upper half of my body. My vision blurs, then refocuses on the orange haze blazing through the kitchen.
RACHAEL
I should be long gone from Point Reina right now, but I forgot my Louis Vuitton clutch at home—the one that matches my bag—and I’d stuffed some important banking papers inside. God, I hope Travis isn’t home. I can’t handle seeing him again. As hard as it is, I’m ready to close that chapter of my life. We haven’t been happy for some time, and it’s taken Joanna’s death—and all his dirty secrets that have tumbled out because of it—for me to realize that. Hopefully, if I know him like I think I do, he’ll be at the distillery, drinking his sorrows away.
Smoke plumes into the sky as I round the corner on Cypress, cutting off any thoughts of Travis, my papers, or my clutch.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, leaning across the seat to get a better view. Thank God Michael isn’t home. Jail isn’t the ideal place to be, but under the circumstances…
Ravenwood is burning.
The wind rages, fanning the flames of the fire faster than the rain can quell it. And Dean’s car sits at the curb.
Oh, God…Dean…
Colleen may be trapped inside, too.
I slam the car into park and dig my phone out of my purse to call 911. What else can I do?
“Fire,” I blurt out when someone answers. “Hurry, it looks bad.”
As I’m giving the address, a media van turns the corner of Beach and Cypress. Through the windshield, I can see them pointing at Ravenwood, gawking, yelling. They’re going to cover the story. And I’m sitting in the car on my phone.
This is my chance.
Screw the six o’clock local news. My face will earn national attention. I’ll be a hero.
Pushing away all hesitations, I race out of the car. I pretend not to see the van and cower as the rain pummels down, flattening my hair. I’m crossing the yard when flames shoot out the kitchen window, shattering the glass. Whimpering, I duck and burst inside the front door.
“Dean! Colleen!”
I’ve stepped straight into hell.
Dark, thick smoke clings to my lungs like tar when I attempt to take a breath. Eerie rippling sounds emanate from the kitchen and I hear an earsplitting crack. The wood beams holding Ravenwood together ar
e fracturing under the flames. Yanking a blanket off the back of the couch, I wrap it around my face, leaving only my eyes exposed. They burn and tear as I scramble down the hall, coughing.
“Dean!”
I can’t find him.
“Colleen!” Bending low to escape the greasy billows of smoke, I scan the living room and kitchen in a flurry of stumbling movements. Panic sets in. “Colleen!”
No one’s here.
But the Mustang out front…
Flames engulf the kitchen counters and burn through the cabinets, which churn out even more horrid black smoke. I choke on it as I call out their names over and over again.
And suddenly, I catch sight of movement. It’s the door to the cellar, wavering on its hinge.
They wouldn’t be downstairs…would they?
Shooting a glance at the still-open door, I envision the warm, safe confines of my car where I could wait for help to arrive, but—no. I can’t leave until I’m sure everyone is out. Crawling—the only way to escape the smoke pluming through the kitchen—I scramble into the cellar doorway.
“Dean!”
I see him, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m coming!”
In a rush of adrenaline, I clamber down the stairs. The air is cleaner down here, but not by much. My lungs ache, and tears stream from the smoke as I descend.
At the base of the stairs, I see Colleen. She’s draped over Dean, her head resting on his chest as if she’s listening for a heartbeat.
“He fell!” she cries out. Her cheeks are filthy with smoke and tears. “He hit his head, and I—I can’t find a pulse!”
Shock freezes the blood in my veins. Dean’s…dead? He’s flat on his back, mouth gaping open like a fish, his eyes rolled back. His chest isn’t rising and falling, and his lips have taken on a sick purple tint. I crouch to check his pulse for myself, but Colleen shrieks in pain and throws her arms around my legs.
“I need help,” she wails, gazing up at me in horror. “I think I broke my leg.”
In Her Shadow Page 30