The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

I asked if she knew if any of that book was based on fact. The editor didn’t have anything helpful there. But she did say about a few weeks ago, Yates wrote her asking to remove the Brownstein murder from the book entirely, or at least change the character’s name. I asked if that kind of request was unusual, and she said it was, mostly because of how close they are to releasing the book.”

Colin paused, tried to swallow again, but found only sand in his mouth.

Sike filled the silence. “Okay, goddamn it, I’ll admit it. That’s kinda interesting. Did they change the book?”

“Nope. The publisher said it was too late, and they didn’t want to anyway. They said the scene is crucial to the book. Which, I agree, it is.”

Sike let out a tired groan. “So you think the Yates woman you’re already looking at for the McKay death and her sister had something to do with Caleb Benner?”

“I think it’s worth asking some questions. You have a unit for cold cases?”

“Nope. It’s just us.”

Colin had one more piece of information he saved for last. “Michael Patterson, the lead on the case at the time, had transcripts on each of the kids he talked to, all the kids from the party. They seemed like complete interviews except for Cora’s, which ended abruptly. Almost as if the tape recorder died or something.” Colin knew he had to tread carefully with this next question. “Now, you said Patterson died back in oh-nine, right?”

“Heart attack.”

“And for all you knew, he was a good cop?”

Sike didn’t answer immediately. “Didn’t know him all that well. What’re you getting at?”

“I’m just wondering if Patterson followed all the leads he could have,” Colin said. “Talked to Cora a second time.”

“Are you saying Patterson intentionally backed off of Cora Yates?”

“Her father has a lot of money. Maybe he made it worth Patterson’s while to focus his attention elsewhere.”

Colin wasn’t sure how Sike would react to his hunch, but he was glad he’d finally said it. He wanted a second opinion. Was Colin just a bit too obsessed with the Yates family, or was there something here?

“Look,” Sike said. “I’m not saying this is all completely without merit. Maybe it is. But the case has been buried for some time.”

“Maybe it’s time to dig it up.”

“Easier said than done. Budget’s tight and cold cases don’t get much priority. If Benner’s body had ever been found, then we’d have a murder case, and the argument for continued investigation would be easier. But no body, no murder. As far as the state’s concerned, Caleb Benner is still just a missing person.”

This was about what Colin had expected to hear, but that didn’t make it any less disappointing.

Seeming to read this disappointment, Sike added, “Look, I’ll do a little poking around. Maybe you weren’t sent the entire case file.”

“That’d be helpful. Thank you.”

“You plan on coming back here anytime soon?”

“Not on the department’s budget,” Colin said. “There’s just not enough evidence to bring Rose Yates back to Wisconsin.”

“Ayuh. ’Bout what I figured.”

Helplessness overcame Colin, manifesting itself in a long, slow exhale. “It’s just…”

“Just what, Detective?”

“There’s just something here, I know it. Something about that Yates family. There’s…I don’t know. A rot there.”

This time, Sike laughed, the throaty chuckle of a smoker. “Well, Detective, there’s rottenness everywhere. So put your big-boy pants on and accept people do bad shit all the time, and we only see a fraction of it, much less bring justice to those evildoers. Always been that way, always will be. And on that note, I need to go figure out who nearly decapitated this poodle.”

Sike disconnected the call, leaving Colin wondering how many more years he’d need on the job to reach the mental ease associated with such acute cynicism.

He hoped never, but knew that was unlikely.

Forty

Bury, New Hampshire

November 10

The harbinger of my apocalypse is a dead poodle.

The moment I hear about the slaughter of the dog, something clicks into place in my mind, and not in a good way. A sudden certainty that my life path—carved from billions of decisions and actions—is now on an ineluctable course toward doom.

I’m working checkout at Tuli’s when a familiar customer leapfrogs past the small talk as I ring up her groceries.

“Did you hear about that awful incident?”

My mind goes to something national. A shooting somewhere. Maybe some worse-than-normal political story. I intake the news in small doses, and not daily ones, trying to keep the balance between being informed and overwhelmed by the ugliness of the world. In the last few months, I’ve hardly paid attention. My life has enough of its own dark melodrama.

“No,” I say, hoping she won’t tell me. But she does.

“Do you know Tasha Collins?”

Bury is small, but it still has several thousand residents. Maybe Tasha Collins is more popular than I realize, but the odds in this situation are I wouldn’t know her.

“Yeah, actually, I do. What about her?”

The woman shakes her head, her salt-and-pepper hair shimmying against her shoulders. She casts her gaze down.

“It’s just so awful. So, so awful.”

And in that split second, I’m thinking Tasha is dead. It has to be that. Tasha had some terrible accident. Car crash, maybe. And then I think of her boy. Oh god, let Micah be okay. My mind races with possibilities. I need to call Alec. See if he’s—

“Someone killed her dog,” the woman says.

“What?”

She looks up, the excitement of the story betrayed in the gleam of her eyes.

“Killed. Like, with a knife.”

I stop scanning her groceries. “What are you talking about?”

She places a hand on the laminate counter separating us, as if she needs to hold on for the ride.

“It happened the day before yesterday. It was in the online version of the Bury Gazette this morning, and I know someone who’s friends with her. Acquaintances at least. Neighbors, but they aren’t really that—”

“What happened?”

She purses her lips and gives a surreptitious glance to each side. There’s no one else in my checkout