Read Online The Widower's Wife: A Thriller by Cate Holahan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cate Holahan
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, FIC030000 Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
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cardinal fled its perch atop a cast iron post. I flung open the gate. A tight vinyl cap stretched over the water. I had activated the automatic pool cover last night. He hadn’t removed it.
“Tom? Tom, are you home?” Fear sneaked into my voice as I shouted across the yard and then headed down the outdoor steps to the basement entrance, still calling for my spouse. The playroom remained in its recent state of mild disarray. Plastic food littered the floor near a retro-styled minikitchen, the aftermath of a food fight between imaginary friends. Colored construction paper lay in a loose stack beside the easel. A few stuffed animals spilled from wicker toy baskets.
The basement guest room remained as untouched as always. The attached bathroom looked undisturbed. I continued my search into the subgrade portions of the basement where the light from the playroom’s sliding glass door didn’t reach.
My husband’s lair beckoned, a windowless, soundproofed bar and theater room behind a heavy, barn-style door. I entered and flipped the switch, praying for the light to reveal my man passed out on a recliner in front of the projector screen. Pot lights revealed a half-empty, floor-to-ceiling wine fridge and vacant black leather chairs.
Nerves made me twist the gold band on my finger, what was left of my wedding jewelry. I’d hawked the engagement ring to pay the mortgage after Tom had been unemployed for 180 days. If I had known we’d default on the house anyway, I would have saved it to pay off the credit cards.
Had he gone out? Where could he go, though, without any money? And what had he gone out to do?
I ran back out into the yard and around the house to the far garage. Tom kept his car on the left side of the house, awayfrom the used Camry that I now drove, as though he feared depreciation by association. I keyed in the garage code: 0505. Not a birthday or an anniversary. The number didn’t mean anything to us, Tom had explained. No robber would guess it.
The door opened with a loud crack. A motor whirred as horizontal sections folded into the garage ceiling. I didn’t need to wait for the wall to retract all the way. The cement floor revealed what I needed to know.
He’d taken the Maserati.
9
November 23
R yan hustled across the busy avenue toward the taller of two skyscrapers, trying to cross the street before the walk countdown hit zero. He was headed back to Ana’s old office—this time unannounced. He doubted Michael would make time for him again, and he couldn’t risk the head of Derivative Capital skirting his calls. Michael had some explaining to do.
Ana’s father hated the guy, and Ryan believed he understood why. Michael had fired Ana because of the spousal abuse. It fit everything together. Michael had been uncomfortable during their earlier conversation because he’d felt guilty for failing to report the domestic violence and, instead, firing Ana for absenteeism. The job loss would have robbed Ana of whatever power she had held onto in her relationship, making her financially vulnerable and pushing her over the edge emotionally. As a result, Ana’s father blamed Michael almost as much as Tom for his daughter’s suicide.
Ryan liked the theory. It explained the parents’ accusations without calling into question Tom’s airtight alibi. Ana’s husband had caused her death, but indirectly. And Michael’s callous attitude toward the abuse had helped.
He pushed through the revolving glass door and headed to the long security desk flanking the turnstile gates preventing nonemployees from entering. The one snag in his plan was that the security guards didn’t have to allow him upstairs. Hisinvestigator badge didn’t convey that kind of authority, at least, not to anyone trained to examine the shiny shape in his wallet.
He sized up the guards, trying to determine whether the older African American woman and middle-aged Hispanic guy sitting behind the desk had the look of former beat cops.
“Tom? Tom, are you home?” Fear sneaked into my voice as I shouted across the yard and then headed down the outdoor steps to the basement entrance, still calling for my spouse. The playroom remained in its recent state of mild disarray. Plastic food littered the floor near a retro-styled minikitchen, the aftermath of a food fight between imaginary friends. Colored construction paper lay in a loose stack beside the easel. A few stuffed animals spilled from wicker toy baskets.
The basement guest room remained as untouched as always. The attached bathroom looked undisturbed. I continued my search into the subgrade portions of the basement where the light from the playroom’s sliding glass door didn’t reach.
My husband’s lair beckoned, a windowless, soundproofed bar and theater room behind a heavy, barn-style door. I entered and flipped the switch, praying for the light to reveal my man passed out on a recliner in front of the projector screen. Pot lights revealed a half-empty, floor-to-ceiling wine fridge and vacant black leather chairs.
Nerves made me twist the gold band on my finger, what was left of my wedding jewelry. I’d hawked the engagement ring to pay the mortgage after Tom had been unemployed for 180 days. If I had known we’d default on the house anyway, I would have saved it to pay off the credit cards.
Had he gone out? Where could he go, though, without any money? And what had he gone out to do?
I ran back out into the yard and around the house to the far garage. Tom kept his car on the left side of the house, awayfrom the used Camry that I now drove, as though he feared depreciation by association. I keyed in the garage code: 0505. Not a birthday or an anniversary. The number didn’t mean anything to us, Tom had explained. No robber would guess it.
The door opened with a loud crack. A motor whirred as horizontal sections folded into the garage ceiling. I didn’t need to wait for the wall to retract all the way. The cement floor revealed what I needed to know.
He’d taken the Maserati.
9
November 23
R yan hustled across the busy avenue toward the taller of two skyscrapers, trying to cross the street before the walk countdown hit zero. He was headed back to Ana’s old office—this time unannounced. He doubted Michael would make time for him again, and he couldn’t risk the head of Derivative Capital skirting his calls. Michael had some explaining to do.
Ana’s father hated the guy, and Ryan believed he understood why. Michael had fired Ana because of the spousal abuse. It fit everything together. Michael had been uncomfortable during their earlier conversation because he’d felt guilty for failing to report the domestic violence and, instead, firing Ana for absenteeism. The job loss would have robbed Ana of whatever power she had held onto in her relationship, making her financially vulnerable and pushing her over the edge emotionally. As a result, Ana’s father blamed Michael almost as much as Tom for his daughter’s suicide.
Ryan liked the theory. It explained the parents’ accusations without calling into question Tom’s airtight alibi. Ana’s husband had caused her death, but indirectly. And Michael’s callous attitude toward the abuse had helped.
He pushed through the revolving glass door and headed to the long security desk flanking the turnstile gates preventing nonemployees from entering. The one snag in his plan was that the security guards didn’t have to allow him upstairs. Hisinvestigator badge didn’t convey that kind of authority, at least, not to anyone trained to examine the shiny shape in his wallet.
He sized up the guards, trying to determine whether the older African American woman and middle-aged Hispanic guy sitting behind the desk had the look of former beat cops.
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