“As we continued talking, though, I started to worry. The drugs weren’t working. Or perhaps I hadn’t given her enough. I thought I’d lost my chance.” I hang my head. “If God had wanted me to spare her, He certainly could’ve swayed me in another direction. Instead, He gave me the necessary tools. We stopped near a bench at the cliff’s edge, and there it was, just sitting there as if it’d been meant for me to find: a shovel. God only knows who had left it there. It was exactly what I needed, at precisely the right moment.”
The memory of Joanna’s final evening rears its head, and I can almost imagine myself back there. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, blanketing the grove in a burnt-orange glow. Joanna was blabbing on and on about her dinner plans that evening with her lover—Travis, I know now—when I raised the shovel and struck her. I stripped the wedding ring from her finger before burying her. Did she deserve to keep in death what she didn’t cherish in life?
And then I exchanged her ring for the necklace I wore around my neck every day—I wanted it to burn through her sinful, selfish flesh. I kept her ring until I found the perfect place to hide it. I stashed the shovel in the nearest yard—how serendipitous that it had been the Martins’! I didn’t know what to do with her prescription bottles, so I kept them, and ultimately replaced them inside the bathroom cabinet at Ravenwood. I assumed that’s where Joanna kept them hidden away from Michael when she was alive. In hindsight, I should’ve gotten rid of them immediately. I sent a final text from Joanna’s phone to give Michael a clean end to his marriage. His lie that she’d run away to Los Angeles to be with her sister kept my secret safe. Until that stupid dog dug her up six months later, of course.
“It was as if God had illuminated the path before I’d even walked it,” I continue. “Yes, I committed a series of sins, but it was all so simple—like it was meant to happen.”
The priest makes another muffled sound, but I don’t let it distract me from continuing to the most righteous part of the story.
“I dug up all the information I could on Michael and fell for him before I even applied for a job at his company. It was an intense and pure kind of love, Father, and I knew God always meant for us to be together. He was so different from any other man I’d been with—I finally felt someone truly cared for me. But his wife’s shoes were harder to fill than I’d realized, and for a long while, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to do it. I went into her bedroom and stole her clothes and perfume so I could rekindle some of the feelings he must have had for her—and have him transfer those feelings to me. Along the way, I stole her husband’s heart, and no matter what has happened, I’m not sorry for that.”
The mourners go silent for a moment. I hear the priest take a ragged breath, but I have one more thing to say. “Funny thing is, I learned that balancing the scales gets easier as you go. Just last week, I was forced to do it again.”
“What do you mean, my child?”
“I had to eradicate a sinner from the earth in order to save an innocent man from a death sentence.” Michael’s life for Dean’s. An easy trade. “And now God’s work is done. I’m sorry for my sins, Father, and any other sins I may have committed in my life. Lord, please forgive me.”
There is a long silence on the other side of the screen. Then he says, “You have confessed grave sins, my child, but God will grant forgiveness if there is true remorse in your heart. Are you ready to receive penance and live a life of grace?”
“Yes, Father. Thank you.”
“Give thanks to the Lord.” His voice falters for a moment, as if he’s not sure what he is going to say next. “For He is good.” I listen intently as the priest assigns penance—a small price to pay for what I’ve done—and bask in the sacramental absolution of the Church. The weight has been lifted from my shoulders; I can breathe again. I’m cleansed. Even though I can’t distinguish the movements exactly, I know the priest is making the sign of the cross over me. I wonder if he’s ever heard such an honest confession before.
“One more thing, my child,” he says as I’m about to leave. “If I may?” He pauses, and through the screen I think I glimpse him lowering his head into his hands. “Some sicknesses can’t be cured with a simple confession. Sometimes the body and mind must be treated by earthly means. Would you mind if I referred you to someone, so you can extinguish any evil lingering in your heart?”
“Oh, Father, there is no evil within me anymore! Not one drop.” I smile. “Besides, there isn’t any reason for me to sin again. My life is going to be perfect from here on out. Absolutely, blissfully perfect.”
With a conscience as clear and bright as the sun, I step out of the confessional and wait at the back of the church for Joanna’s service to end. The nave is dark and smells like well-oiled wood and incense, a mixture that reminds me of my childhood, when my parents would take me to Mass. A gorgeous brunette sits near the altar, next to Michael. Decked out in black, she has narrow shoulders and dark, glossy hair swept back and pinned on the side of her head. When she turns to glance at the man beside her, I can see a heart-shaped chin and a narrow, sloping nose. Even though I haven’t seen Joanna since last summer, I know instantly that the woman is Heather, her sister. They look so much alike; my heart hitches at the sight.
In the second row, behind Michael, Travis sits with his arm casually resting on the back of the pew. Rachael is a solid yard away, dressed in black with her pale golden hair falling down her back. It looks like he’s trying to mend things between them, but she’s keeping her distance. Before the ceremony, I caught up with her for a few minutes. She said she’s done keeping secrets in her glass house, and has already signed a lease for a new apartment in the city.
The service goes on for the next ten minutes, honoring Joanna’s glory days with a video montage Heather must’ve put together. The moment the priest concludes the service, Michael stands and searches for me through the crowd. Everyone moves toward him, hands outstretched, eager to hug his grief away. But when Michael catches my gaze, he strides down the main aisle with purpose, ignoring those around him.
Suddenly, he stops in the middle of the aisle. Something distracts him. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone. The corner of his lips twitch as he reads a text.
Was he holding back a smile?
When he glances up, his expression changes again. A warm blush rises to his cheeks, and a glimmer of something mischievous flits across his eyes. I wonder what that text message was about….
“What is it?” I ask when he’s closed the distance between us.
“Just the office.” He grips me gently by the shoulders. “They can’t seem to finish this proposal without me. I’m going to have to pull another all-nighter. You’ll be all right if I leave once we get home, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
I know he’s lying. This is the third “all-nighter” this week. I clasp my hands in front of me and squeeze until my fingers go numb. He’s going to be spending time with her again. My replacement, Tiffany. The eager secretary sitting right outside his office door, willing to do anything for him. I know she’s trying to seduce him—because I did it myself not too long ago.
Only she’s made one grave mistake. She’s underestimated me.
As Michael escorts me outside, a black-and-white patrol car drives past the church. It brakes suddenly before swerving against the curb, only a few car-lengths away. My heart leaps into my throat when I see the silhouettes of Detective Shaw and Detective Patel. And now I can’t breathe.
“Are you all right, Coll?” Michael rubs his hand up and down my back reassuringly. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Detective Shaw’s beady eyes are watching me through the rearview mirror, I’m certain of it. “Let’s get out of here.”
I fold my arms over my stomach and brace for the coming of another storm. I will do what
I need to secure my future, and all will be forgiven in the end.
For His mercy endures forever.
Several years ago, my husband and I took a leisurely drive along Northern California’s coast and discovered the Moss Beach Distillery perched on the edge of a cliff just north of Half Moon Bay. We ducked inside, seeking reprieve from the rainy weather, and were illuminated by tales of the Blue Lady: a ghost that haunts the restaurant. As the story goes, over seventy-five years ago, the woman (who always dressed in blue) fell in love and had an affair with the distillery’s piano player. But she was already married to another. She was allegedly murdered while walking along the beach below the distillery, and the case has never been solved. It is said that the Blue Lady haunts the distillery because she is searching for her lost lover. The restaurant still reserves her favorite table.
I immediately fell in love with the story, the mystery of it all, and was inspired by the affair and the lies. As I visited the area more frequently, book ideas began to stir. The Monterey cypress grove exists as it does in the novel, tucked between a quiet suburban area and the rocky coast. Hiking trails lead to tide pools, sheltered beaches, and a marine life sanctuary. The ocean in this area can be tumultuous and angry, the weather overcast and dreary. I tried to honor the area as much as I could while still satisfying the needs of the plot.
While I’ve taken creative liberty and changed even the core of the story, a hint of the Blue Lady remains in these pages. I humbly thank her spirit for the inspiration, and the Moss Beach Distillery for holding a candle to her memory.
For Justin, forever.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank God, who has blessed my life in unimaginable ways. Nothing would be possible without His grace.
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary, who makes my wildest dreams come true. To my editors, Kate Miciak and Alyssa Matesic, for having the foresight to see what this book could become and believing in my ability to make it happen.
To Tina Klinesmith, Deb Lee, Jennie Marts, and Vanessa Kier. Not only are you talented writers, but you are incredible friends. Thank you for your advice when it came to the development of this book.
Love and thanks to Monica Wunderlich, Gary and Giuliana Martin, Heather and James McKenzie, Justin Smith, Laurie and Manish Patel, Lora and Donald Walker, and Sarah and Steve Rhyne for years of friendship and inspiration. Thank you to my Spartan family for your support and enthusiasm. Heartfelt thanks to Aggie Smith for reading every word I’ve written. I wouldn’t have gotten from “Joliet” to this place without you, and certainly not in “nine days.”
I would like to give special thanks to Ann and Al Brocchini, whose wisdom and generosity were gifts when researching this novel. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to assist in making this book as accurate as possible. Any mistakes on the police procedural side of things are mine alone.
I’d like to thank my amazing family and support system: Larry, Charlene, Donny, Nora, Cameron, Kendra, Chris, Laura, Juliann, Willow, Steve, Ashlee, and Kaley. Loving thanks to my parents, Don and Marie, for your unwavering faith in me. To my husband, Justin, and children, Kelli and Gavin: I love you with my whole heart.
Read on for an exclusive look at Kristin Miller’s next riveting novel
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives
Available in 2021 from Ballantine Books
GEORGIA
PRESENT DAY
ST. MARY’S MEDICAL CENTER, SAN FRANCISCO
Pain is the first thing I remember. One moment I’m sleeping the soundest sleep anyone has ever slept. In the next, pain blooms through the tips of my toes. It crawls up my body, slinking over my skin, torturing every nerve ending, until it fills my chest like a giant, throbbing balloon. I try to suck in a jagged breath, but lead sheets crush my chest. I’m flattened against a firm mattress. I’m cold. So unbelievably cold.
Panic lashes through my veins.
I can’t open my eyes or my lips. I can’t speak. I’m lifeless. Immobile. My strength is gone, completely sapped from my muscles. I can’t move, can’t shift my weight. I’m pinned.
Beep.
Knives piece my eardrums as the sound goes off again. Swallowing is an effort. A jagged rock has taken up residence in the back of my throat. I’m so thirsty. My lips are unbelievably chapped.
Beep.
Without warning, the nightmare floods back in violent, vivid color. Flashing lights and blood and screams create a chaotic painting against the back of my eyelids. Agony follows, and grief, too.
The accident.
Something terrible happened. I—I didn’t stop it. I could have—God, I should have—but I didn’t. What have I done?
It strikes again—that cold, wretched feeling that sours my gut. Guilt. I could’ve done something, opened my mouth and changed the sequence of events that catapulted me into this dark place. I could’ve changed everything. I held the future in the palm of my hand. But I didn’t act, didn’t try hard enough.
This is my fault.
Beep.
The annoying bleat morphs from something intrusive and foreign into something familiar. A machine I’ve heard before, when my first husband, Jake, slipped and cartwheeled down our spiral staircase. He landed on the bottom, arms and legs broken in awkward angles, like a demented starfish. His head hit the tile hard and oozed blood from the crack in his skull all over our Grecian tile. An ambulance rushed him to St. Mary’s Medical Center. He was dead on arrival, much like Andrew, my second husband, who swallowed a bullet the following year. I found him in our office, his brains staining the back of an Italian leather chair I’d given him for Christmas.
Beep.
I know that noise. I’m in the hospital. The knowledge only increases the adrenaline surging hot through me.
“Open those curtains, would you?” someone says from beside me.
I’m here! I can hear you! I want to scream. But I can’t. My lips might as well be stapled shut.
“There, that’s better,” the nurse says after another shrill chirp from the machine. “She’s still really pale, though.”
“Do you think her color is off because of blood loss?” someone answers from the other side of me. This voice is softer. Sweeter. “Or lack of sunlight from being stuck indoors? Look at those nails—she’s definitely not the outdoorsy type. Maybe she’s always this pasty white.”
Pasty? My complexion has never been ashen before. Have I truly lost that much blood? My pulse races at the thought.
Beep…beep…beep.
Something tugs on my arm. I only vaguely remember the feeling from when I was eighteen and put under for my nose job. It’s an IV. They’re upping my medication.
How long have I been here? It could be a couple of hours after my fortieth birthday party, or a month later. In this state, I wouldn’t know. It feels as if I’ve been sleeping my entire life. Consciousness slips away as blobs of inky darkness threaten to pull me under. My thoughts knock together clumsily like shapes in a kaleidoscope, changing and smearing until time and dream and reality are inconsequential. Is my husband here too? Tucked away in the room next door in the same situation? Too many questions swirl through my brain at once and I can’t make sense of any of them.
“You know,” the nastier of the two says, “she kind of looks like that woman.”
“Which one?”
“The woman all over the news,” she says, the IV jerking in my vein. “The one who killed her husband, married another guy right after, and then killed him, too. I think it’s her.”
Beep.
“Oh, I’d almost forgotten about her,” the louder one says. “They say she pushed one down the stairs and shot the other one while he was working in his office.” She’s beside me now. The side of my bed slumps as if she’s leaning over to get a closer look at me. “Yeah, she kind of does look like
her, doesn’t she? What where they calling her?”
“The Black Widow.”
“That’s right.
“Hard to tell what she looks like with those bandages on her face.”
Oh, for the love of all that is holy, please don’t let my face be covered with scars. I wouldn’t want to live if I’ve become disfigured.
“Did you hear if the other woman made it?” the louder one asks. “The one they hit with the car?”
“There was no way that poor woman could’ve survived. They had to have been going fast.” The woman’s voice lowers. “When they brought her in, she was really messed up. Did you see her? The officer said she flew thirty feet. Cracked her head open on the asphalt.”
“What was she doing in the middle of the road?”
“No one knows.”
The woman sighs heavily, as if whatever she’s thinking has taken a physical toll on her. “But that’s not the worst of it. This woman’s husband—the one driving—was ejected through the windshield of their car when they veered into a tree.”
Denial flares in my gut. That’s not right—they’re mistaken. My husband couldn’t have been ejected from the car. That’s not possible….
“He was killed on impact,” one of the nurses whispers.
Beepbeep…beepbeep.
“Oh my God,” the sweet one says as she pats my hand. “She’s going to be devastated when she finds out.”
“It gets worse,” the other retorts. “I overheard the officer outside her door talking to a detective last night. They’re going to have a lot of questions for her when she wakes up. They’re going to try to arrest her for murder.”
Murder? No—this can’t be happening. As a heavy dose of medication deluges my blood, I fall into a deep, comalike sleep—one plagued with nightmares of shattered glass and blood-soaked skin and screams bubbling from the pit of hell.
In Her Shadow Page 32