now the place has a completely different vibe. It feels violated, destroyed, as if its guts have spilled out for everyone to see. I don’t feel comfortable there. Not anymore.
It might have something to do with the fact that they opened the locked rooms, making me confront things I wasn’t ready to. It still feels too soon. I don’t expect anyone, including Colleen, to understand.
Or maybe it’s just that I can’t live across the street from the place where they found Joanna’s body.
The reporters camping outside Ravenwood don’t appear to be leaving anytime soon. They’re attacking Colleen with questions every time she steps outside. It’s as if I’m a serial killer, and they’re trying to save my pregnant girlfriend from being my next victim.
If I’m honest with myself, I know in the five years Joanna and I were married, I thought about killing her on more than one occasion. That’s normal, isn’t it? For married couples to hate as passionately as they love? Man alive, I hated Joanna, especially that final night. I wanted to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze. I could even imagine the way her windpipe would collapse under my fingers, the way her blue eyes would pop out of their sockets as she looked at me one last time with the realization that she might’ve struck first, but I’d gotten her in the end.
“Michael,” a small voice says behind me, and I whirl around.
I was so lost in thought, I hadn’t heard anyone approach. Now, I force a smile as I greet Joanna’s only living relative with a tight embrace. Heather’s tiny in my arms, narrow and bony, just like Joanna, but on the inside I know she’s tough as nails. Just the way Joanna used to be. They were a lot alike, shared a close bond, and frequently talked on the phone.
But last winter, something happened.
Heather stopped calling, and Joanna stopped mentioning her. I supposed the sisters had gotten into some kind of squabble, and after some time had passed, they’d get over it the way they always did. A few months later though—probably around the time we found out we were pregnant—Joanna mentioned that Heather and her husband had taken an extended vacation in Spain. Joanna found out on social media, and wasn’t thrilled about it. From Heather’s pictures, it appeared she was having the time of her life. Joanna kept making snide remarks about how Heather’s taste in beachwear was pretty gruesome. Deep down, I think she was jealous. Even though I’d always given Joanna everything she could’ve ever wanted, she never understood why we couldn’t get up and leave whenever we wanted. The way Heather and her husband had. But managing a successful business meant I was tied to it. Married to it. I guess it wasn’t in Joanna’s makeup to understand that level of loyalty.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, stepping back to look into Heather’s eyes.
They’re bright blue like Joanna’s, with the same almond shape, lined with the same thick fans of black eyelashes. Heather’s irises are shadowed, her eyes rimmed with red as if she’s been crying, yet I still see Joanna in them. My gut clenches into a solid fist at the resemblance.
I haven’t seen her in years, since Christmas before last, when we drove down to L.A. to spend the holidays together. Those were different times. Feels like decades have passed since then.
“Wish it wasn’t under these circumstances,” I force out.
And I wish Joanna hadn’t confided in her sister all the years we were married. For better or worse, the details of our marriage should’ve stayed inside Ravenwood’s four walls. Heather was never given the opportunity to make up her own mind about me. Her opinion was tainted from the start—her sister saw to that—and she’s never let me forget it.
Heather doesn’t even try to smile. Her face stays sullen, her color as flat gray as the sky overhead. “You look well rested.”