The Widower's Wife: A Thriller Read Online Free Page A

raise her someplace where we are the wealthy people. Where we can give her everything without killing ourselves.” His finger flew to his chest like a soap opera protagonist making a point. “Without me killing myself .”
    He’d called me stupid. My tongue pressed against my teeth. I couldn’t let our argument, or whatever this was, devolve into a schoolyard shouting match.
    “I don’t even know if we can get jobs there.”
    Tom scoffed. The sound erupted as a half giggle, half gasp. “I don’t want to get a job there. I want to retire. You should see the mansions you can buy on the southern coast for just over a million.”
    Was this the alcohol talking, or had the year of unemployment pushed my husband over the edge? Retire? At thirty-four?
    “Tom, what are you talking about? Our savings are near gone.”
    The conversation had become ridiculous. We’d have to eat humble pie for a time. My husband would have to swallow it. I collected the empty wine bottle and my full plate. Might as well scrape it into the garbage.
    Tom grabbed my arm as I headed into the kitchen. Too rough. The wine bottle and my plate toppled to the floor. Orange sauce splattered on the hardwood and across the cabinet. A spot landed on the edge of his white shirt. How the heck would I get that out of linen?
    “Damn it, Tom.”
    A chicken chunk rested atop his bare big toe. His nose wrinkled as he shook it off. “We’re not done talking.”
    “Well, I was done eating.”
    He relinquished my arm. I grabbed the paper towel roll beside the farmhouse sink. Hands wrapped around my waist. Liquor-scented breath whispered by my ear. “I’m sorry about the plate. I didn’t mean—”
    “I need to clean all that food before it stains the floor.” I yanked several sheets of two-ply off the roll.
    Tom rested his chin on my shoulder. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”
    I wanted nothing more than to wipe up the food, take the trash out to the garage, and call it a night. The clock above the microwave flashed 9:58. I needed to leave in eight and a half hours to get to work before the head trader came in. But I could hear the need in my husband’s voice.
    I faced him. My long bangs fell into my eyes as I turned. “I’m listening.”
    For the first time all night, the lines between Tom’s brows faded. “All the pressure in that job, trying to make enough to give you and Sophia everything and support your parents—it was too much. I can’t work like that anymore.”
    I reached up to scratch the back of his head, the way I did with our daughter when she needed comfort. Oily strands slipped through my fingers. Tom’s Ivy League haircut, always neat in the back, had devolved into an unwashed grunge style. “You don’t need to. It will be okay. I’m working again and—”
    “You can’t make enough. Just look around.” His arms opened wide to indicate our massive kitchen. Calacatta countertops. Gleaming white cupboards with matching paneled fridge and dishwasher. Stainless steel range. Built-in espresso maker and microwave. An island topped with a marble slab big enough to require a special cut at the Italian quarry.
    Crying over things is a waste of tears. Still, my eyes welled. I stood in my dream kitchen, in our dream house. We’d been spoiled. I could never provide this. Short of winning the lottery,I would never be able to afford to live in a decent public school district, let alone the best school district in the state. I would never be able to pay for all the extras we’d planned on giving our child: ballet lessons, art classes, tutoring. I wouldn’t be able to send much money, if any, to my parents. And with both of us working—eventually Tom would have to do something—we wouldn’t even be around to give Sophia the parental attention that we’d both agreed kids needed.
    I gazed at the ceiling’s embedded lights, little on-demand suns in a Venetian plaster sky. I’d agonized over the paint finish. My first-world problems.