idea that Joanna wasn’t particularly fond of her?” I ask instead.
“Of course not.”
“What about Joanna’s pregnancy?” I probe deeper. “Was there anything unusual about it? Especially as the summer drew near?”
Samara Graves swipes her hand over the comforter as if smoothing out a wrinkle from where Joanna Harris had sat moments before. “I took Joanna to every prenatal appointment she scheduled. I don’t believe a woman should be going to those appointments alone, and Mr. Harris wouldn’t accompany her. It was a special time…until she lost the baby.”
It’s what we’ve suspected, but hearing it spoken so plainly nearly causes me to startle in excitement. “When was that?”
“Mid-May.”
“Are you absolutely certain of that timing?”
She looks me square in the eye. “Yes. It was a dreadful time—one I will never forget. I was the only one here to console her through her grief.”
“What about Mr. Harris?” Because he certainly seemed surprised to learn that his wife wasn’t pregnant when we discovered her. “Did he know about the miscarriage?”
“He didn’t at the time.” She folds her hands in front of her. “Joanna didn’t know how to tell him, and I don’t blame her. How do you tell your husband that you’ve lost his child? That can’t be something that slides easily off the lips. But I’m sure he knows now.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder. “Are we finished, Detective Shaw? Because now that Mr. Harris has brought a new mistress into the house, I’ve got double the work to do.”
“Nearly finished,” I say, because now she’s brought up something else. “What are your thoughts on Colleen Roper?”
To my astonishment, a wide smile brightens her face. “I’m very happy with my job, Detective.”
“But that’s not what I—”
“Good afternoon, Miss Roper.” Samara Graves stands ramrod straight, her eyes locked on mine. “How can I help you?”
I follow her line of sight over my shoulder. Colleen Roper steps into the room, treading carefully, her gaze skipping nervously from me to Samara Graves.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice low. “I don’t mean to interrupt….I was just checking to make sure that you’d found the detective up here. Michael said—”
“I’ve been cleaning this wing for five years,” the housekeeper interrupts. “I’m sure I can find my way. Good day, miss. Detective Shaw, I’ll email you the required information on my break.”
I thank her for her cooperation as she leaves, and before I can take advantage of the chance to speak with Colleen again, Harris charges into the room.
“Colleen?” He’s barreling toward us as if the four-poster bed is on fire. “Are you in here?”
He stops when he sees me, then acknowledges my presence with a quick nod. Colleen spins around to meet his stare head-on, and waves of tension heat the room to stifling in seconds.
“I didn’t”—he starts, and then quiets—“I didn’t mean for you to see this. Not yet.”
“Then when?” she whispers, her lower lip quivering.
“Detective Shaw,” Harris says, his eyes locked on his lover’s, “would you give us a few minutes alone, please? We’ll leave after that, I promise. Just…one minute.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “We really need you to make your way out so we can continue the search. I’m sure you can understand the importance of what we’re doing here—”
The moment we step out of Ravenwood and the salty sea air hits me, I feel more at ease, despite the fact that the reporters are still hovering. I take Colleen’s hand to guide her toward the Martins’, but she doesn’t curl her fingers around mine. It’s as if she’s turned to stone.
“I should’ve shown you that earlier.” I wish she’d never seen it. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, but that was Joanna’s bedroom. If nothing else, it should show you how strained we were near