show her the image I’d snapped of the bottles. “I—I don’t know how to explain that. I don’t even use that pharmacy. I get my medications from the CVS on Cabrillo Highway. Maybe it’s another Mandy McKnight?”
Not likely. We searched. The woman in front of us is the only one with ties to Joanna Harris. Her shock appears genuine.
“Ms. McKnight—”
“Mandy, please,” she interjects.
“Mandy, we believe Joanna was killed sometime in the middle of July. I realize it was a while ago, but if you think back, do you recall anything happening out of the ordinary around that time? Anything that might have struck you as odd?”
“Like what?”
“Did she seem lethargic during workout sessions? Stressed? Venting about her husband or other problems at work, perhaps? She was pregnant while attending classes here, so I assume some of the moves were difficult for her—did that bother her at some point?” I’m reaching, and I know it.
“When Joanna first told me she was pregnant, I told her to take it easy, listen to her body and her doctor’s recommendations. As far as I know, she wasn’t bothered by anything we did. I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head again. “I wish I could help….”
“What about Rachael Martin?” Patel breaks in. “Did she take the same classes?”
Mandy opens her mouth to speak, then clamps it shut, her attention flipping between us. “I’d completely forgotten about it until now. Rachael and Joanna really got into it one day, right out front. I couldn’t help but overhear—oh my God, how could I have forgotten?”
“Forgotten what?”
“Joanna was sleeping with Rachael’s husband. They had quite the blowout.”
Here we go. “Mandy, tell us what you remember.”
RACHAEL
“Knock, knock.” My friend Lora pushes the front door open and strides inside. She’s wearing black yoga pants and a caramel-colored tank the same shade as her hair. Today, that’s pulled back into a sloppy bun, yet she’s still somehow rocking it. “You ready?”
“Give me five minutes.”
“I already gave you ten.” She shields her eyes from the glare reflecting off the living room window. “I told you morning-after workouts were a bad idea.”
After Joanna stood me up at the distillery last night, I’d called up Lora and taken an Uber to the city to meet her. I wasn’t about to throw away a girls’ night simply because Joanna was sick. No way. Girls’ night was my night. Time away from Travis. By now, he’s fully aware of the way it works. Whether I’m with Joanna, drinking and painting into the night, or partying with Lora in the city, I never make it home before three. Hell, I don’t even mind going out alone. I’ve watched movies Travis would hate. Spent hours in a quiet corner of a late-night coffee shop reading a book I can’t pull my nose out of. Or, other nights, I’ve occupied the end of a bar and waited for a handsome stranger to catch my eye. I’ve gone home with men who made me feel wanted and beautiful and perfect. Men who simply filled a void that a fight with Travis had caused. Truth is, I don’t care what I’m doing. As long as I feel like myself again at the end of the night, it’s a success.
Last night, Lora and I hit a comedy club and two Irish pubs and shut down a third. It was a blast, and closing time came fast.
I had no idea the real excitement was waiting for me at home.
“Damn, that’s hot.” I nearly scald my tongue on my coffee. “I’ll drive.”
Giving the cup a quick wash, I swipe it dry with the towel hanging on the oven door, then set it back in the cupboard. Can’t leave anything in the sink. Drives Travis nuts.
“I’m almost done,” I say, rushing toward the bedroom. “Promise.”
Because Travis wanted a quickie before work, my morning has been a scramble I’m still recovering from. I missed the morning news and