shifted. Colleen seems happier, and from the way she snored last night, I’d say she’s sleeping better too.
I understand why she’s worried about my reluctance to attach to her or the baby—she’s afraid I’ll pull away in the end—but I simply needed time. When Joanna left me, I was devastated. But what made my world crumble to the ground was the fact that I’d invested so much time, energy, and hope in our baby. And it wasn’t even mine. I simply couldn’t let myself get wrapped up so easily this time. I had to protect myself.
The investigation and media circus have been the greatest tests of all. All this week, I expected Colleen to doubt me, or just walk out. But she’s stuck by my side. Through thick and thin.
“I’m ready,” she calls, and emerges from the master bathroom, hands raised from her sides. “What do you think?”
The breath catches in my throat. She’s wearing a black, old-fashioned dress, like something from the twenties, covered in beading and tassels. Some kind of sheer material barely conceals her shoulders. Her hair is sleek in front, parted on the side, and pinned into a feminine roll near the bottom of her hairline. Her lips are glossy red, her eyes smoky, her eyelashes thick and black. As she spins, I get a clear look at her growing belly stretching the dress’s slinky material.
“Well?” she demands, beaming at me. She’s as delighted as a child.
I can’t formulate a single word. Does she know? She couldn’t….How could she? There are no pictures of Joanna at last year’s anniversary party. Who would put her up to this? Samara? Travis? Dean?
The dress could be the exact same one Joanna wore that night.
Black and beaded, yes. Knee-length, I’m sure of it. Joanna had decided on a twenties vibe, her hair drawn up, her lips blood-red. She’d insisted I wear a pinstripe tux, with a red rose on the lapel, to match her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Colleen’s smile falters.
“Did you get that from—never mind.” I must be mistaken.
“What?” Her face scrunches in confusion. “Is it bad? Should I change?”
“No,” I force out, my voice suddenly hoarse. “You’re stunning. You took my breath away, that’s all.”
It’s not a lie. My chest is tight, my heart is pounding. Should I ask her to change? We don’t have time—we’re already late—and I fear telling her to pick another outfit would dampen her spirits and ruin the whole night.
Shaking my head to clear away images of Joanna, I step forward and wrap Colleen in my arms. “You were right. Absolutely worth the wait.”
But then I breathe in, and—Joanna. Joy again. Is she doing this on purpose? The perfume makes Colleen smell powdery, fresh, and sweet as a rose. But the scent is disturbingly familiar. Did she raid Joanna’s bedroom, taking the dress from her closet, just the way she took the perfume from her vanity?
“You look handsome.” Pulling away, she gives a short tug on my lapels. She’s smiling again, pleased. “Are you ready?”
For a second, I think she’s going to suggest I pin a flower there, right where Joanna had insisted I wear one. And suddenly I’m feeling like I’ve slipped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
I need a drink.
“Let’s go,” I say, a little too harshly, and Colleen glances up at me, surprised.
The reporters are there, as always, snapping pictures as we step out front. Microphones are shoved at us as we face a barrage of questions about Joanna, about the investigation. Tonight, we elbow through without a word, and by the time we turn the corner onto Beach Street, miraculously, we’re alone again.
It’s quiet tonight, I notice as we walk to the Point Reina Distillery. All I can hear is the soft rush of waves hitting sand and Colleen’s heels striking the sidewalk. It’s nearly eight and pitch-dark, with only the glare of the crescent moon