feeling tired of this whole charade. “I can’t remember exact dates and times.”
Sweat forms on my brow as Shaw looks up from his notebook and stares, unwavering.
“Mrs. Martin, when I said we’d discovered ‘phone activity’ between your husband and Joanna Harris, I didn’t specify that they were phone calls. That was a jump you made. As it happens, we can’t find a record of any calls between them. What we have discovered are frequent text messages between Joanna and your husband from February through July.”
My head spins. They texted frequently? The lying, cheating—
“Can you give any other explanation as to why they might’ve been in such close and constant contact?” Shaw asks mildly.
“There are only two people who could answer that question, Detective.” I’m fuming inside, struggling to formulate words that aren’t vulgar. “And you know where to find both of them. Are we finished?”
COLLEEN
It’s been two days, but I’m still thinking about how Michael said we could use the nursery for our baby if I wanted to. As if I would ever want to put our child in the crib he’d planned to use for his child with Joanna. The more I think about it, the more disturbing that thought is, and I know I need to voice my feelings about it. The stress of all this is really getting to me. I felt jittery for most of yesterday, probably because I haven’t eaten much. I simply can’t force myself to eat from a menu chosen by his dead wife.
But I can’t keep quiet any longer about the nursery.
He has to get rid of it. Clear everything out. Keeping Joanna’s and the baby’s room that way—like it’s some kind of shrine to the both of them—is sick. Seriously disturbed. He has to understand how it’s making me feel, like I’m second rate compared to what he had before. Nothing but a stand-in.
Joanna’s dead. We know that now. It’s time to clear out her room and the baby’s room and put all of that behind us. It’s time to focus on us, on our future. And I’m so sick and tired of feeling like I have to fight to be seen in his home, and in his life.
I’m done.
After paying my cab fare, I approach Harris Financial, tightening the belt of my trench coat around my waist. The weather is wicked, rainy and cold, and there’s no sign of its letting up. Wind catches the door, holding it open as I squeeze inside. Using all my strength, I pull the door closed, but a rogue blast of frigid air sweeps up my bare legs, instantly freezing me. I would’ve worn pants, or something more comfortable, but this is the first time I’ve gone back to the office since quitting. I want to show Michael that I understand what it takes to be the wife of a successful business owner. And I won’t embarrass him by coming into the office looking anything less than professional.
The heels are killing me, though. Either the shoes have shrunk since I put them on last, or my feet are swelling. I don’t want to acknowledge the obvious reason, so I pretend I’m not in pain, and strut into the building.
Although I only worked for Harris Financial five months, the lobby feels like home, with its off-white walls, glossy floor, and bold splashes of abstract artwork. I don’t notice anyone familiar, but most people are tuned in to their phones as they whiz in and out of the front doors.
I get a nod from the receptionist—she always used to eye me warily—and make my way to the elevators. I’m dreaming of the day when I’ll be surprising Michael with our baby in tow when the elevator whisks open on the top floor. Stepping out, I reknot the sash around my waist and try to walk as quietly as I can. Each step in these heels is an announcement, the clack-clack-clacking rebounding off the walls. As I pass a balding young man clutching a stack of folders, I smile in acknowledgment, and am completely ignored. Suddenly I remember why Michael was always the highlight of this