Barely breathing, I brush my thumb over the angled tip, and wonder how many times she held this tube in her hand and pressed it against her lips. I smash the waxy film between my forefinger and thumb and smear the color over my skin. Her lipstick wasn’t on the passenger seat or hidden away in the console. No, it’d been left on the driver’s side.
This car was hers.
And suddenly I don’t know whether to cry or scream or beat my head against the steering wheel until I can’t think about Joanna anymore. It’s too much. She’s saturated everything in Michael’s life. Even the air in this car is stale because she breathed it first. I shove the lipstick in the glove compartment and close my eyes.
Holding back the impending hysterics, I slam the door closed and crank the key in the ignition. The car whirs to life, purring as I put it into gear, circle the drive, and head out through the tunnel of trees. I can almost envision Joanna’s manicured fingers curling over the steering wheel as mine are now. I can picture her glancing into the rearview mirror, checking on the baby that’d be buckled there.
Every minute of the drive into Half Moon Bay is torturous. I keep measuring my movements against how Joanna might’ve driven this car. When Dr. Souza’s building appears in a complex on the right, I almost miss it.
Parked in a spot close to the entrance, I tilt my head back and take a few deep breaths.
Joanna’s gone.
It’s my time now, to focus on our baby.
Leaning over, I jerk the glove compartment open and steal the lipstick from inside. And as I glance into the sun-visor mirror, I smooth the color over my lips. I won’t be afraid of overstepping my boundaries or stepping on her memory. This is my life now.
Diva is a great shade. I think I’ll wear it better.
I pucker at my reflection and toss the lipstick into my purse.
With newfound confidence, I exit Joanna’s car and enter the ob-gyn’s office. Expectant mothers in all stages of pregnancy fill nearly every chair. I can’t wait until I’m like that woman across from me, full-bellied and glowing radiantly. Or that one, in the corner, who looks as if she’s about to pop any second. I’m deep in a Cosmopolitan article titled “Keeping Your Man Happy” when the television above the reception desk catches my eye.
Melissa Mendes’s face fills the screen. “The investigation into the Point Reina murder is in full swing. Detectives have brought in Joanna Harris’s husband, Michael, and his new girlfriend, Colleen Roper, for questioning.”
“Oh no,” I say on an exhale as I lean forward, heart racing.
The footage cuts to Detective Shaw. “We’re working closely with Michael Harris,” he says dryly, “who is just as eager to discover who killed his wife as we are.”
Have they connected the dots yet? Do they know Travis had more than enough motive to kill her? And that Rachael did, too? I should stop by the station after the appointment and tell them what I’ve learned. The sooner this is put to rest, the better.
The film cuts back to Melissa Mendes. “We’re keeping a close eye on the developments in this case as the truth about Michael and Joanna Harris’s marriage unfolds.”
The chipper reporter summarizes the basics about the case until my name is called and I’m weighed in. It’s not long before the doctor knocks on the door and lets himself in.
“Colleen,” he says, closing the door behind him. He’s forty-something, thin as a rail, glasses perched halfway down his narrow nose. “How are you holding up?”
“Good,” I answer immediately, shifting my weight on the exam table. “I felt the baby move on Thursday, and it was amazing.”
He frowns. “No, I mean, how are you holding up with everything else? From what I hear, you and your husband have been under