Read Online The Widower's Wife: A Thriller by Cate Holahan - Free Book Online
Authors: Cate Holahan
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, FIC030000 Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
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his mouth. A glance at his wife’s withering expression shut it. “We have to go now.” Beatriz sucked in her breath. Tears melted her brown eyes. “Please. I beg you. Don’t let Tom hurt our granddaughter too.”
The screen went dark.
8
August 12
S ophia and I entered the house like cartoon burglars, on the pads of our feet, leaning sideways so as not to open the door wide. I’d told her Daddy was sick and we shouldn’t wake him. Really, I just didn’t want her interacting with her father in whatever state I would find him.
The late-afternoon sun saturated the house’s beige walls in blood-orange light. I scooped Sophia into my arms and then scanned for signs of drunken stupidity: broken glass, scattered clothing, blood splatter. The house’s open layout left clear sight lines into the dining room, living room, den, and upstairs hallway. Everything remained in order. No signs of a binge. No Tom.
My enraged heart pounded out the buildup in a techno song. I braced for the drop. Where was my husband? Why hadn’t he picked her up?
Sophia nuzzled into my neck. There’s a cliché that compares kids to sponges. It’s right, but for the wrong reason. Kids don’t soak up knowledge; they absorb their parents’ emotions. Sophia sopped up my anxiety like it was dirty dishwater.
I cooed in her ear. “You go to your room and play for a bit while Mommy checks to see if Daddy needs anything. Then we’ll head out for a slice of pizza.”
I crept up the spiral staircase, one arm beneath my daughter’s bottom, one hand gripping the railing. Cool air hissed throughceiling vents, electronics hummed beneath the chirps of birds in the backyard. No sound of Tom.
The burnt smell of vacuumed carpet greeted me as we entered Sophia’s room. I’d cleaned yesterday. Her puffy duvet lay on the bed like a deflated pastry. I placed Sophia on top of it, and her arm tightened around my neck.
“You have to let go, honey.” I tried to keep my voice light, masking my fury at her father for somehow forgetting her. “I need to check on Daddy.”
I slipped my head from her noose. Sophia’s brown eyes reminded me of a cartoon character. Large. Shivering. TV was made for times like this. Unfortunately, we didn’t have one in her room. I handed her an unreadable book, just like in daycare. “You take a rest and I’ll be right back.”
I walked down the hallway, peeking into the two guest bedrooms between Sophia’s room and the master suite. The beds in each remained made, ready for hosting our nonexistent friends and family. I didn’t need to check the attached bathrooms. Only college kids passed out beside the toilet after binge drinking. Adults found a way to drag themselves into bed.
The double doors to our bedroom stood shut. I turned the knob and stepped inside. Covers lay in a twisted ball in the center of the king mattress. Pillows hid beneath the bed frame. An empty scotch glass waited beside a business book on the nightstand. The Brass Ring: Negotiating Without Compromise. A man’s book. The female version would have a different title: The 50% Solution: How to Reach an Amicable Agreement Without Resentment .
Tom’s phone charger lay on top of the book. His phone didn’t. Worry started to overwhelm my anger. I’d assumed Tom would be passed out in one of the bedrooms. What if he’d been in a real accident . . . or not an accident? He’d been depressed. He’d discussed faking his death. Could he have done something crazy? Something we couldn’t recover from?
I hurried down the back staircase to the empty kitchen, cursing myself for not paying more attention to our conversation theprior night. I again checked the den. No Tom. The pool? Was it possible to intentionally drown in four feet of water?
I flew down our sloped property to my sanctuary. As I ran, I renewed my religion: Dear God, please don’t let anything else have happened. Please. Please. Please . Birds screamed warnings of my arrival. A
The screen went dark.
8
August 12
S ophia and I entered the house like cartoon burglars, on the pads of our feet, leaning sideways so as not to open the door wide. I’d told her Daddy was sick and we shouldn’t wake him. Really, I just didn’t want her interacting with her father in whatever state I would find him.
The late-afternoon sun saturated the house’s beige walls in blood-orange light. I scooped Sophia into my arms and then scanned for signs of drunken stupidity: broken glass, scattered clothing, blood splatter. The house’s open layout left clear sight lines into the dining room, living room, den, and upstairs hallway. Everything remained in order. No signs of a binge. No Tom.
My enraged heart pounded out the buildup in a techno song. I braced for the drop. Where was my husband? Why hadn’t he picked her up?
Sophia nuzzled into my neck. There’s a cliché that compares kids to sponges. It’s right, but for the wrong reason. Kids don’t soak up knowledge; they absorb their parents’ emotions. Sophia sopped up my anxiety like it was dirty dishwater.
I cooed in her ear. “You go to your room and play for a bit while Mommy checks to see if Daddy needs anything. Then we’ll head out for a slice of pizza.”
I crept up the spiral staircase, one arm beneath my daughter’s bottom, one hand gripping the railing. Cool air hissed throughceiling vents, electronics hummed beneath the chirps of birds in the backyard. No sound of Tom.
The burnt smell of vacuumed carpet greeted me as we entered Sophia’s room. I’d cleaned yesterday. Her puffy duvet lay on the bed like a deflated pastry. I placed Sophia on top of it, and her arm tightened around my neck.
“You have to let go, honey.” I tried to keep my voice light, masking my fury at her father for somehow forgetting her. “I need to check on Daddy.”
I slipped my head from her noose. Sophia’s brown eyes reminded me of a cartoon character. Large. Shivering. TV was made for times like this. Unfortunately, we didn’t have one in her room. I handed her an unreadable book, just like in daycare. “You take a rest and I’ll be right back.”
I walked down the hallway, peeking into the two guest bedrooms between Sophia’s room and the master suite. The beds in each remained made, ready for hosting our nonexistent friends and family. I didn’t need to check the attached bathrooms. Only college kids passed out beside the toilet after binge drinking. Adults found a way to drag themselves into bed.
The double doors to our bedroom stood shut. I turned the knob and stepped inside. Covers lay in a twisted ball in the center of the king mattress. Pillows hid beneath the bed frame. An empty scotch glass waited beside a business book on the nightstand. The Brass Ring: Negotiating Without Compromise. A man’s book. The female version would have a different title: The 50% Solution: How to Reach an Amicable Agreement Without Resentment .
Tom’s phone charger lay on top of the book. His phone didn’t. Worry started to overwhelm my anger. I’d assumed Tom would be passed out in one of the bedrooms. What if he’d been in a real accident . . . or not an accident? He’d been depressed. He’d discussed faking his death. Could he have done something crazy? Something we couldn’t recover from?
I hurried down the back staircase to the empty kitchen, cursing myself for not paying more attention to our conversation theprior night. I again checked the den. No Tom. The pool? Was it possible to intentionally drown in four feet of water?
I flew down our sloped property to my sanctuary. As I ran, I renewed my religion: Dear God, please don’t let anything else have happened. Please. Please. Please . Birds screamed warnings of my arrival. A
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