the stone, then back. “It’s not what you think. He didn’t purchase it alone. They chose their place together.” She’s much more observant than she lets on. “I’ve been thinking more about the conversation you and I had, when you asked if she had any enemies.”
“You said that everyone loved her.”
“Yes, that’s what got me thinking,” she begins, but stops. Her brittle voice softens. “Have you looked into the women’s clinic in the city? The one she visited last summer?”
“We have.”
“At first, Joanna hated going,” she says softly. “Despised the drive, the wait time, the fact that the woman would pray over her at the end of each session. But along the way something changed. She suddenly thought the world of her, couldn’t wait to go in again. ‘She’ll fix everything,’ she’d say, and then she’d laugh, as if she was the only one aware of some strange joke.”
Had the sessions been grief counseling after her miscarriage? Or was she being treated for something else?
“I think the counselor knows more than anyone what was going on with Joanna in her final few months—why she went to the clinic, who she may have been having problems with.”
“I appreciate the tip,” I say. “Do you happen to have her name?”
“She never told me the woman’s name. Just called her ‘my counselor.’?”
My brain races. I’ve already tried to look into employees at the women’s clinic, but Dr. Garcia resisted, threatening to call his lawyer. And Patel’s already flipped the hourglass, dropping sand faster than I can catch it. Unless I get something more concrete on this counselor, whoever she is, Patel isn’t likely to stall Michael’s arrest for another interrogation that may go nowhere.
“Joanna was attached to anyone who gave her attention,” Samara continues, resting her hand on the headstone, caressing it with her fingertips. “She was desperate to be noticed, to be cared for, wanted, and envied by everyone around her. I think the counselor gave her those things. Joanna was the loneliest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Even though she had Mr. Harris?”
Samara stares me down. “Mr. Harris was working such long hours, he wasn’t paying attention to her. When he was around, he was dismissive of her. He didn’t care about how she spent her days as long as she was the trophy on his arm. And she liked that, while it suited her. Eventually though, she wanted to be more. She didn’t want to be trapped in Ravenwood by herself, with nothing to occupy her time. She didn’t have many people she felt she could talk to.”
“But she talked to you,” I point out.
She nods. “And to that counselor. The odd thing is that Joanna didn’t even want children in the first place,” Samara says, rubbing her fingers over the rough granite. “Mr. Harris conveniently forgets that. He was the one who wanted the family, not her. Joanna never wanted children. She was still taking birth control, even though they argued all the time about it. Mr. Harris was furious when she started another pill cycle each month. And then, like a miracle, she was pregnant.”
“She told you that?”
Samara looks up at me, but her eyes seem dazed. I wonder if she’s taking medication. Or recreational drugs. “She finally compromised and told him she’d have one child. One, no more. When she lost that child, she really pulled back from him. I don’t believe that their marriage ever fully recovered.”
“Did she happen to tell you who the—”
“Father of the baby was?” she interrupts, smirking as if she’s enjoying the taste of the secret in her mouth. “Let’s just say the timeline didn’t match up for it to be Mr. Harris’s.” The raven calls out again, a single raspy bleat that draws our attention to the tree overhead. When Samara brings her gaze back down to me, her expression has softened.
“But you didn’t answer my question, Samara.”
“Joanna was almost certain it was Dean’s.”
I want to believe her, but