The Widower's Wife: A Thriller Read Online Free

pretending we’ll just get through this. I am not getting a job before the next house payment is due. We can’t live like this on a secretary’s salary.”
    The touch felt like the man I’d married, though Tom no longer quite looked like him. The chandelier overhead cast deep shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating puffiness from stress and lack of sleep. The stubble on his jawline made the bottom half of his face appear fuller, less boyishly handsome. But still attractive. It would take more than a rough year to dull Tom’s good looks.
    “I know we can’t keep the house.” The words burned like whiskey. I chased them with a hard swallow. “I spoke to Stacy. She said she’d list it for a discounted fee, three percent.”
    “We’ll never get close to what we paid.”
    I blinked away more shame. To think I hadn’t even worried when the housing market dropped 40 percent. I’d been so confident in Tom’s ability to make the payments. The house was our home, not an investment.
    “The bank owns the house,” Tom went on. “We won’t get a dime back.”
    “So we’ll downsize for a while. There are good towns farther from the city with solid schools. I’ll just need to commute a little longer.”
    “And stick me with the kid.”
    I pictured Sophia gazing at him with those giant brown eyes, waiting for him to acknowledge her with more than a pat on the head, to give her something—anything—to do for him, like an overattentive waitress at a fancy restaurant. No one was ever stuck with Sophia, especially not her daddy.
    “Our daughter goes to daycare until nearly four and I’m always home by seven. You could try to enjoy the three hours in between: throw a ball in the yard or read a book to her.”
    The lines between Tom’s eyebrows deepened. Parenthood confounded my husband, though I couldn’t blame him for it. His own folks had died when he was barely a preteen, leaving him without any strong memories of what parents did.
    “You think I don’t want to just enjoy our kid? I can’t here. It’s such a fucking rat race. No matter how much you make, you always need more: a more expensive house in a higher-ranked school system so your kid can compete or a better car so the neighbors know you belong or nicer clothes to look the part and—”
    “None of that matters. We don’t have to care what our neighbors think.”
    “Others determine our fate, babe. We must always care what they think.”
    One of Tom’s hands rested beside his wine glass. I stretched my arm across the table. My fingertips grazed his knuckles as though testing a plate of hot food. Since losing his job, Tom could interpret even an encouraging gesture as patronizing.
    “We don’t need other people,” I said. “We have each other. We’ll get through this.”
    Tom’s hand fled my touch. I left my palm outstretched on the table, a sign that I was there to support him. He offered a sheepish smile in return, an apology for recoiling. Glance and gesture are the language of the long-term couple.
    My husband sighed. “It’s just not easy.”
    His eyes flitted to his empty wine glass and the bottle destined for the recycling bin. He stood and strode around the table to the butler’s pantry, where the light from the chandelier didn’t quite reach and where we kept the hard alcohol. His half-lit form opened the overhead cabinet and dipped inside. Glass tapped against glass. A new glass meant Scotch.
    “We’ll just have to find a more middle-class area,” I said.
    He pulled in his bottom lip as the tumbler returned to chest level, licking the last drop of liquor. “No. We should leave the U.S.”
    “We can’t just up and move to another country. We don’t have work visas or speak other languages. Where are you even thinking?”
    “Someplace in South America. Maybe by your folks, where the money will stretch further.”
    “You want to raise our daughter near favelas? Do you know how violent—”
    “Don’t be stupid. I want to