Claire tried desperately not to internalize the information as she flipped the pages of the report. She found the same section of Samuel’s report. It is the judgment of this office that Samuel Rawls died from multiple gunshot wounds. He exhibited injuries in both legs and his spinal column. The fatal shot occurred with a bullet to the right temple. His right hand tested positive for residue consistent with the placement of the weapon.

The weapon found near Mr. Samuel Rawls has been confirmed to be the weapon used with both Mr. and Mrs. Rawls. Time of Death estimated at approximately 1600 hours.

Claire sighed. She’d put off reading this report, fearing it would implicate Tony instead of Samuel. Although tragic, she found the information comforting. The times of death exonerated Tony, proving he wasn’t responsible for his parents’ death.

Then again, the reports raised new questions: Why would Samuel have multiple injuries? Most people committing suicide don’t shoot themself in the legs or back? What about the neighbor’s statement? What about the other woman? Samuel’s sister? After minutes of scanning, Claire determined the other woman must have been a dead lead. No sister existed or was mentioned in any other reports surrounding the deaths of Samuel and Amanda Rawls.

Finishing off her glass of wine, Claire read the clock, 9:07. Where is Harry? The room wobbled slightly. Her head felt light with wine and lack of food. She left the research on the bed and went toward the kitchen. On the shiny granite countertop, her iPhone sat all alone. Claire reached for the devise and pushed buttons. Immediately the icon for missed calls appeared with the number two. As she changed the screen to see the numbers, she saw a text from Harry:

IM SO SORRY. IM ON HAMILTON AVENUE. ACCIDENT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. IM FINE BUT STAYING WITH VICTIM UNTIL POLICE AND PARAMEDICS ARRIVE.

She immediately called his number; it went to voice mail. Claire hung up and called again. She felt an unwelcome tightening in her chest as she ran for the door. Hamilton was just a block or two away. She could be there in minutes if she walked fast, sooner if she ran. The phone rang as she threw open the door to her condominium. If she hadn’t looked up, she would have run right into him.

*****

Derek quietly entered their dark condominium. Coming home much later than he’d planned, he placed his keys on the small table in the foyer and gazed down the dark hallway. Seeping from around the door to Sophia’s new studio he saw golden beams of light. He slipped off his shoes and walked soundlessly toward the glow. With each step his anticipation mounted, would he finally find his wife drawing or painting? She’d been on the West Coast for almost two weeks and hadn’t so much as touched a sketch pad. With each step he realized, more than anything, Derek wanted to see his wife lost in her world of creativity.

Of course, over the past fourteen days she’d given every excuse for avoiding her new studio; adjusting to the time change, getting to know the neighbors, learning her way around Silicon Valley -- all valid, especially his favorite, getting to know people at his work. When Derek worked in Boston and Sophia spent her days and nights on the Cape, she rarely interacted with his fellow workers. He often wondered if it were proximity or personality. It was no secret, they lived in different worlds. Nonetheless, her lack of daily interaction didn’t hinder her presence at social functions, where she mingled beautifully, being her gregarious self.

Derek often felt a twinge of pride when coworkers noticed his lovely wife. Some of the Boston associates even commented about Derek’s perfect life, a gorgeous wife patiently waiting miles away, leaving his days free to explore what Boston had to offer. Derek didn’t agree. He had more woman in Sophia than he’d ever dreamt; exploring wasn’t on his radar.

Truthfully, it wasn’t just Sophia’s looks, although he approved; it was her uncensored zest for life -- her ability to see the world in a way he never would. As Derek anticipated her arrival to their new Santa Clara home, he readied himself for a whirlwind of excitement.

It never happened.

From the moment Sophia stepped into his new office, he noticed the difference. Her beauty never wavered, yet her spark and drive did. The spark which drew him to her, like a moth to a flame, was gone. In the past two weeks, she’s unpacked their condo, shopped, made regular appearances at his office, attended a few business dinners, and waited patiently for his return home. Derek wondered if he’d unknowingly married a Stepford wife.

He longed for the woman he’d left on the Cape, the woman who would paint all night, crawl into bed before his alarm, nuzzle close, and pout when he finally pulled away from their early morning encounter. She filled his fantasies. Yet, of all the sudden changes, Sophia’s lack of art bothered Derek most. She’d made no attempt to organize her new home studio. Even after Derek ordered her a new desk and some of the basics, she’d done nothing to make it hers. Now, as Derek slipped down the bleached wooden planks, toward the light and resonating soft jazz music, his anticipation grew.

He read his watch: 11:27. His meeting turned to dinner, into more discussion and into more drinks. It wasn’t the first time since Sophia’s arrival he’d disappointed her by not coming home at a decent hour.

Leaning around the slightly ajar door, Derek peered into the light at the end of the dark tunnel. His chest filled with love, seeing Sophia’s long blonde hair secured by a big clip and the deep swoop of her nightgown. She was turned the other direction, sitting cross legged on the floor, with her sketch pad on top of an unpacked box. Her hand moved urgently as the charcoal brushed the surface of the linen tablet. He saw his wife’s slender neck all the way down to the middle of her back. Though the room was still in disarray, he noticed a few new bags of art supplies.