Claire tried desperately not to internalize the information as she flipped the pages of the report. She found the same section of Samuel’s report:
It is the judgment of this office that Samuel Rawls died from multiple gunshot wounds. He exhibited injuries in both legs and his spinal column. The fatal shot occurred with a bullet to the right temple. His right hand tested positive for residue consistent with the placement of the weapon.
The weapon found near Mr. Samuel Rawls has been confirmed to be the weapon used with both Mr. and Mrs. Rawls. Time of Death: estimated at approximately 1600 hours.
Claire sighed. She’d put off reading this report, fearing it would implicate Tony instead of Samuel. Although tragic, she found the information comforting. The times of death exonerated Tony, proving he wasn’t responsible for his parents’ death.
Then again, the reports raised new questions: Why would Samuel have multiple injuries? Most people committing suicide don’t shoot themselves in the legs or back. What about the neighbor’s statement? What about the other woman? Samuel’s sister? After minutes of scanning, Claire determined the other woman must have been a dead lead. No sister existed or was mentioned in any other reports surrounding the deaths of Samuel and Amanda Rawls.
Finishing off her glass of wine, Claire read the clock, 9:07 PM. Where is Harry? The room wobbled slightly. Her head felt light with wine and lack of food. She left the research on the bed and went toward the kitchen. On the shiny granite countertop, her iPhone sat all alone. Claire reached for the device and pushed buttons. Immediately, the icon for missed calls appeared with the number two. As she changed the screen to see the numbers, she saw a text from Harry:
“I’M SO SORRY. I’M ON HAMILTON AVENUE. ACCIDENT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. I’M FINE BUT STAYING WITH VICTIM UNTIL POLICE AND PARAMEDICS ARRIVE.”
She immediately called his number; it went to voicemail. Claire hung up and called again. She felt an unwelcome tightening in her chest as she ran for the door. Hamilton was just a block or two away. She could be there in minutes if she walked fast, sooner if she ran. The phone rang as she threw open the door to her condominium. If she hadn’t looked up, she would have run right into him.
Derek quietly entered their dark condominium. Coming home much later than he’d planned, he placed his keys on the small table in the foyer and gazed down the dark hallway. Seeping from around the door to Sophia’s new studio, he saw golden beams of light. He slipped off his shoes and walked soundlessly toward the glow. With each step, his anticipation mounted. Would he finally find his wife drawing or painting? She’d been on the West Coast for almost two weeks and hadn’t so much as touched a sketch pad. With each step, he realized, more than anything, Derek wanted to see his wife lost in her world of creativity.
Of course, over the past fourteen days, she’d given every excuse for avoiding her new studio; adjusting to the time change, getting to know the neighbors, learning her way around Silicon Valley—all valid, especially his favorite, getting to know people at his work. When Derek worked in Boston and Sophia spent her days and nights on the Cape, she rarely interacted with his fellow workers. He often wondered if it were proximity or personality. It was no secret, they lived in different worlds. Nonetheless, her lack of daily interaction didn’t hinder her presence at social functions, where she mingled beautifully, being her gregarious self.
Derek often felt a twinge of pride when coworkers noticed his lovely wife. Some of the Boston associates even commented about Derek’s perfect life: a gorgeous wife patiently waiting miles away, leaving his days free to explore what Boston had to offer. Derek didn’t agree. He had more woman in Sophia than he’d ever dreamt. Exploring wasn’t on his radar.
Truthfully, it wasn’t just Sophia’s looks, although he approved. It was her uncensored zest for life. Her ability to see the world in a way he never would. As Derek anticipated her arrival to their new Santa Clara home, he readied himself for a whirlwind of excitement.
It never happened.
From the moment Sophia stepped into his new office, he noticed the difference. Her beauty never wavered, yet her spark and drive did. The spark which drew him to her, like a moth to a flame, was gone. In the past two weeks, she’s unpacked their condo, shopped, made regular appearances at his office, attended a few business dinners, and waited patiently for his return home. Derek wondered if he’d unknowingly married a Stepford wife.
He longed for the woman he’d left on the Cape, the woman who would paint all night, crawl into bed before his alarm, nuzzle close, and pout when he finally pulled away from their early morning encounter. She filled his fantasies, yet of all the sudden changes, Sophia’s lack of art bothered Derek most. She’d made no attempt to organize her new home studio. Even after Derek ordered her a new desk and some of the basics, she’d done nothing to make it hers. Now, as Derek slipped down the bleached wooden planks, toward the light and resonating soft jazz music, his anticipation grew.
He read his watch: 11:27 PM. His meeting turned to dinner, into more discussion and into more drinks. It wasn’t the first time since Sophia’s arrival that he’d disappointed her by not coming home at a decent hour.
Leaning around the slightly ajar door, Derek peered into the light at the end of the dark tunnel. His chest filled with love, seeing Sophia’s long, blonde hair secured by a big clip and the deep swoop of her nightgown. She was turned the other direction, sitting cross legged on the floor, with her sketch pad on top of an unpacked box. Her hand moved urgently as the charcoal brushed the surface of the linen tablet. He saw his wife’s slender neck all the way down to the middle of her back. Though the room was still in disarray, he noticed a few new bags of art supplies.
Derek fought the desire to break his wife’s trance. He realized the woman before him, on the floor with darkened fingertips and bare feet, was the love of his life, and watching her in this state, almost drugged by her own creative muse, was Derek’s favorite aphrodisiac. The scent of her perfume mixed with charcoal filled his senses. Gripping the door jamb, Derek stopped his impulse to nuzzle her sexy exposed neck.
They had a beautiful king-size bed, in a large suite with a magnificent view on the other side of the condo; however, as Derek stood watching, he fantasized about taking his wife right there, right now on the wooden floor. Closing his eyes, Derek thought about Sophia’s gaze as they made love. He imagined her stunning gray eyes clouded with a blue haze as their passion ignited. Sadly, Derek realized, he hadn’t seen those blue clouds since New England.
That realization, combined with the woeful reverberation of saxophone music, prompted him to turn silently toward the hallway. He couldn’t disturb her, not for his own desires. Seeing her in her state of euphoria was enough. He eased his way to their room and climbed into their large empty bed. Derek’s only solace, as he drifted off to sleep, was that Sophia was once again drawing.
The linen page filled with different shades of black and gray. Sophia bought colored chalk at the supply store, but charcoal seemed more appropriate. She wasn’t sure what propelled her to the art supplies store in Palo Alto. Perhaps it was her desire to see the numerous art studios in that area boasting wonderful exhibits. After all, she’d received a postcard inviting her to one of the exhibits. It wasn’t really a personal invitation for to her. It was one of those promotional mailings, but it intrigued her. While perusing the displays, she felt the familiar desire to create. It was so overpowering that she couldn’t resist any longer.
It wasn’t that she’d been resisting. It was more like she’d put it away—somewhere. Since coming to California, there were more important things to do. She needed to be Mrs. Derek Burke. No, she wanted to be; however, with each passing day, Sophia questioned if she wanted to be Mrs. Derek Burke for her or for him. As an executive in a large and upcoming company, didn’t he deserve that? The pretense was draining. Sophia constantly argued with herself… if she wanted to be what Derek wanted, than why did she feel so unhappy?
While in an art stud
io on Hamilton Avenue in Palo Alto, the curator approached, and they began talking. They discussed the displayed pieces and debated the use of mediums and color. With time, Sophia revealed she too was an artist and mentioned her studio in Provincetown and exhibitions in Europe.
The gentleman asked to see her portfolio. It was at that moment, Sophia realized it was still in Massachusetts. That realization struck her with unseen force. Her portfolio—her life in synopsis—was back on the Cape. She’d left her life to be with Derek.
Some of her better works were accessible through her website. She typed in the address and showed Mr. George her art. He appeared more than impressed.
“Mrs. Burke, I like your work. It has a fresh raw quality.”
“Thank you, Mr. George. Please call me Sophia.”
“I want you to know this is out of character, to offer a position to someone without checking references, but I’ve recently found myself in need of a trusted employee.” Sophia listened. “I have space in the back where you could create, but mostly I need someone to look after the studio a few hours during the day. It would also require the occasional evening and weekend.”
Sophia didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been looking for a job. Nonetheless, the past two weeks she’d felt like a fish out of water. The idea of being surrounded by art thrilled her, but at the same time, she knew Derek didn’t want her to work. He wanted her to be free to create. She wished she could explain how her new found freedom felt stifling.
“Mr. George, I’m honored. I really should discuss this with my husband, and you should know I plan to make some short trips to Provincetown during the summer. I hate having my studio closed throughout the busy time of year.”
“I understand. We can meet again to determine if details can be worked out. Would you consider shipping some of your work here, for display?”
She couldn’t help but beam. It would have been impossible to hide the smile. “I’m truly honored. I’ll give it all serious consideration. Could I please contact you tomorrow?”
Sophia took his number, and they made all the necessary arrangements. The renewed excitement gave her the strength to purchase new supplies. She couldn’t wait to tell Derek; however, he called and told her he wouldn’t be home for dinner; then there was the text message explaining his meeting was going longer than expected. She tried to busy herself while she waited.
Sometime during the evening, Sophia found herself in the room he’d planned as her studio. Looking around, she knew it needed to be organized; however, as she began removing the new items from the bags, she gave in to impulse. Although new, the charcoal felt smooth and amazing under her fingertips. Without thought or provocation, she surrendered to the desire, and began to draw.
When the white page was no longer white, she sat back and looked at the whole of what she’d created. It was a beach with rolling clouds and rough seas, no place in particular and yet—East Coast. Looking around the cluttered room, Sophia wondered about the time. Surely, Derek should be home by now. Making her way down the hall, she found his shoes by the door. Sadness swelled in her chest and a muffled sob escaped her lips when she discovered him sleeping alone in their bed. Why didn’t he come down to her?
Softly, she shut the door to their bedroom and went back to the other hall. Next to her studio was another room, a spare bedroom, decorated with light colors and natural textures, for visiting friends and family. As she eased herself into the cool sheets and inhaled the fresh newness surrounding her, her thoughts traveled across the country to their cottage on the Cape. No matter how hard she worked to eliminate the scent of age, it lingered below the surface. It probably was a combination of sea, moisture, and mildew. The ingredients sounded foul, yet it wasn’t. Lying on the new bed, in the newly painted room, she longed for that fragrance. Allowing quiet tears to escape her eyes and moisten the soft pillow case, she drifted into a restless sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.
—Dr. Seuss
When Claire looked into Harry’s tired, sad eyes, her anxiety melted into relief. She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face into his chest. She’d never expected to be so concerned, but she was. Her muffled words flowed without hesitation, “I just got your text. I was so worried. I was going to find you, to be sure you were okay.”
Slowly, his arms encircled her frame, and his chin settled upon her head. “I am.”
She led him into the apartment and offered him something to drink. He asked for water then changed his mind to wine. She attentively tended to his needs as he explained what transpired.
“I would’ve been here sooner. But just as I was about to leave SiJo, we had multiple false alarms. I have no idea what was happening. We had sensors indicating people where there were none, and sensors ignoring people where there had been.” He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to release his pent-up stress and continued, “I know it’s a computer glitch. I probably could’ve figured it out, but honestly, I wanted to get here, so I left Jackson to deal with it and headed home.” He emptied his glass of wine. Claire refilled it and returned it to his hand. After a few sips, he continued.
“You know, usually Palo Alto is quiet and calm.” Claire nodded. She didn’t have a clue how Palo Alto was usually, but in her short time it fit the description: calm. He went on, “I was almost home, on Hamilton, when this car pulled out of a parking space. It was like some kind of movie; it happened so fast—yet in slow motion.” He finished the wine, placed the glass on the nearby table, and took Claire’s hands. “I don’t mean to sound vain, but if it wasn’t for my quick reactions, I think I would’ve been the one placed in that ambulance.” He squeezed Claire’s hands as she remained silent. “Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about you and our talk. When everything happened, I just reacted.”
Claire wanted to know about that talk, but he needed to discuss the accident.
“Before I knew it, this car pulled out of a parking space, heading the other direction, and then this taxi came up on my right. There wasn’t really a lane. He must have been in a hurry.” Harry closed his eyes and watched his private recall. Finally, he spoke, “The car in front of me swerved, I hit the brakes, and the taxi moved into my spot. Suddenly, the car from the parking spot went into the oncoming lane and collided head on with the taxi. The driver of the car from the parking space was a young girl, only sixteen years old. I don’t know if she hit the gas instead of the brake.” He shook his head solemnly. “We’ll never know.”
Claire took a drink of her wine: it definitely wasn’t a sip. She thought about Harry’s words, if it weren’t for my quick reaction… She’d experienced too many questionable situations to believe in coincidence. Finally, she asked, “How’s the taxi driver?”
“Distraught and injured, but not life threatening. He was on his way to a fare, so he didn’t have a passenger.” Claire kissed Harry’s cheek and asked if he wanted more wine or if perhaps he was ready for some dinner. When he nodded, she led him by the hand into the kitchen.
He looked around at the set table and pans on the stove top. “I’m sorry that I messed up your dinner. It smells wonderful.”
She smiled a wary smile. “I don’t think my dinner’s as important as you. You’re okay; that’s what matters.” She squeezed his hand. “Why don’t you pour us some more wine and start your salad. I’ll warm up this food. It’ll be fine.”
He continued to talk about the accident as Claire warmed the fish in the microwave and heated the sauce on the stove. Next, she refilled the sauce pan for the asparagus. As the faucet gushed water, she heard Harry’s voice, but her mind filled with other words: Tony asking, “Who was the expected recipient of that dazzling smile?”
Tears came to her eyes as the realization struck. Her presence wasn’t making Amber and Harry’s life more exciting; she was putting them in danger.
The memo
ries of her parents and Simon’s untimely deaths paralyzed her movements. Water overflowed the pan as she stood motionless, staring at the tiled backsplash. It wasn’t the mosaic design holding her trance, it was her new thoughts about Amber. She’s flying home tomorrow from meetings in Houston. Simon died in a plane crash. Claire’s heart began to beat erratically.
Harry appeared behind her. So deep in her sudden rational or irrational terror, she didn’t hear him approach. She jumped as he grasped her shoulders. As if from a tunnel, she heard his voice, echoing against the cavern walls, or maybe he was repeating himself, “Claire, are you all right? Claire, Claire, are you all right?”
Her grip on the handle of the pan failed. The metal pot fell to the depths of the sink as water droplets splashed violently coating the tile, granite, and porcelain. Her body trembled as she tried to speak, “It’s me. I have to leave. We need to call Amber.”
“What’s you? What are you talking about?” Harry tried to calm her; however, she barely heard his words through the commotion within her head.
Finally, in desperation she screamed, “Call Amber, now!”
Still unsure of the reason for Claire’s sudden outburst, he turned off the water, reached for his phone, and led Claire’s unsteady body to the table. Harry dialed his sister. Once the connection was established, he handed Claire the phone.
Her words ran together as she tried to explain everything to Amber. Claire told her about Harry’s accident, about Tony’s visit, and about her fear. Harry listened to every word. When she spoke about Tony visiting the condominium, Claire saw his neck stiffen and jaw clench. She pushed on.
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