Suddenly my thoughts come together. Joanna staying in the second master in May, avoiding me for weeks. That could’ve been when she lost the baby. If only I’d known, I would’ve been there for her and helped her through it. Things between us could’ve turned out so differently.
“All of that makes sense. But this doesn’t.” I point to the text. “She had to have been pregnant when she sent this. Look—she says the baby is growing inside her. And this was in July.”
“The timeline doesn’t match up at all! Oh, Michael! Why haven’t you shown this text to the police?”
“Because they’re going to pin this as my motive. They’re going to think I had nothing to lose, that everything was being taken from me. That I killed her because I lost my head in some kind of insane jealous rage.”
“Did you?” she blurts, her tone accusing. She’s crying now, ugly tears dribbling down her cheeks.
Leaning forward, I take her hands in mine. “Heather, I had nothing to do with what happened to Joanna or the baby. I swear to you I’m innocent. If I show them this, I’ll become their number one suspect.”
She jerks away and smacks me in the chest with my phone. “You already are! If you showed them her text, it might lead them to another suspect. Maybe it’s the guy she left you for. Who was it?”
“I don’t know. She never told me.”
God forgive me for trying to rip the name from her throat.
Heather’s eyes narrow to slits. “And you have no idea?”
“None.”
“Were you that neglectful? Did you not pay attention to how she was spending her time at all?” Before I can defend myself, she says, “No wonder she was so unhappy.”
I don’t argue with her. Because I know I didn’t treat Joanna right, and I’ve been tormented with guilt since the last moment I saw her.
“I’m sorry to rush you,” the woman in the suit bleats from the doorway, “but we can nail down the funeral date at another time, and we have an appointment arriving in just a few moments. Which one of you will be paying for the services today?”
“That’s me,” I say.
As I remove the wallet from my pocket, the woman places a binder on the desk in front of us. Opening it up, Heather peeks at the bill, swiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Ouch, that’ll make a dent,” she says, making a twisted face. “I guess it’s a good thing you just came into a bunch of insurance money, isn’t it?”
DETECTIVE SHAW
July sixteenth, 10:04 P.M. Michael, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the baby growing inside me isn’t yours….
Adjusting my laptop screen to eliminate the glare from the sunlight pouring through the windows of the Point Reina Distillery, I reread Joanna’s last text: I’m in love with the baby’s father, and the only way we can have a future is if I bury you in the past….
“Isn’t this crazy?” Patel’s frowning, stroking his coffee mug. He should lay off the caffeine.
“I know. Joanna wasn’t pregnant in July when she died. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not that. This,” he says, pointing to the big-screen television mounted over the bar. “Sixty-footers are rolling in now. Those guys could die just trying to get out there.”
He’s referring to the surfers participating in the Titans of Mavericks—a big-wave surfing competition held off Point Reina’s rocky coastline. Storm surges and monster waves in January and February beckon the most daring and reckless surfers in the world. Today, the distillery has opened early to accommodate spectators who’d rather watch the show on television and benefit from the close-up camera angles than fight the crowds on the beach. At the moment, every seat in the place is filled with a riveted surfing fan, and all eyes are glued to the big screens. All but mine.