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

of all the control he had to exude as he walked into the tragedies of others, Colin, in that moment, did indeed drift away, yielding all responsibility, all control. There was a sickening relief to it, not to be in charge, and trusting others to sweep in and manage the scene. Maybe time would pass and he’d come out of his fugue and be told everything was fine. The baby was fine. Meg was fine. Looked worse than it was.

But the drop of logic he still possessed told him that wouldn’t be the case. There would be no good news. Not now. Maybe never again.

Shaking. Someone was shaking him. Arms.

Lights.

Sirens.

None of it mattered. Colin kept drifting, and soon the sea in front of him became vast, flat, and endless. No breeze. No movement. A world above, a world below, and just the speck of him in between.

His second-to-last thought as he floated into some other consciousness was of Rose Yates. No specific thought, just her. What a fucking shame to have that woman’s face come to my mind in a time like this, he thought. A goddamn, fucking shame.

His last thought was that his baby was a girl. He didn’t know how he knew it, but Colin was certain. A girl. Little girl.

That was the thought shattering the very last piece of him, smashing it into a fine powder and blowing it up into the sky, where it drifted, becoming a part of everything else.

Everything and nothing, all at once.

Part III

Forty-Four

Bury, New Hampshire

September 18

Twenty-Two Years Earlier

Then I see her.

Cora, in the doorway. Materializes like a ghost.

And this thing. This tiny little thing that’s scarier than the blood or the gurgling, the lunging or the prints. Even more horrifying than the scream.

It’s the smile.

Cora’s smiling. Gentle, genuine.

As if posing for her yearbook photo.

Caleb stumbles toward me and falls over just a few feet away. My fifteen-year-old brain can’t do the math, can’t derive the logic of the situation. Therefore, this must not exist. Must not be happening.

But when Caleb reaches forward and grabs onto my ankle with his right hand—nearly toppling me—there’s no pretending this is simply a bad dream.

“Please,” he gasps, “she’s c-crazy.”

Then I scream. Loud and fierce.

“Shut up!” Cora yells at me. “The neighbors will hear you.”

But I can’t stop. I yank away from Caleb’s grip and back against the hallway wall. It doesn’t occur to me to try to help him. All I can do is scream.

With just a few swift strides, Cora is on me. Right forearm across my chest, pinning me to the wall. Left hand over my mouth. I shriek a second longer, the sound muffled against her palm. Her skin is wet and salty, and in this moment, I realize I’m tasting blood. Caleb’s blood. I look down at her forearm pressed against my chest. My gaze scans the length of it until I see the Swiss Army knife clutched in her fist, daggerlike, the longest of its blades unhoused and angled just slightly away from my breast. I recognize the knife because I have a matching one. They were in our Christmas stockings five or six years ago, because Santa knows every little girl wants a multi-tool pocketknife.

The blade is dark with blood.

“Shut the fuck up,” she says. “We need to think. Gotta figure this out, Rose. You and me. He attacked me. He attacked me and I was defending myself.”

“No,” Caleb manages. “She…she’s lying. Please…”

Cora lets go of me, turns, and delivers a harsh kick to Caleb’s head, which snaps upward for a split second before his jaw crashes back to the floor.

He moans as Cora returns her attention to me.

“You’re a part of this now.”

“What’s happening?” I manage to say. My throat is on fire, as if I’ve just swallowed a cup of hot sand. “We have to call for help.”

“We will.” Her voice is steady. How is she so calm? “You just need to understand. Caleb attacked me. In my room. Tried to rape me.”

“No!” he screams, which turns into a sob. “It’s not true. I didn’t…do anything.” He gets up to one knee before falling back to the floor, slipping on his own blood.

“Shut up!” Cora howls, the calm vanished. Turning to me, she says, “I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice. You need to believe me, Rose. I thought he was going to kill me.”

A movement to my right. Caleb is finally standing at the edge of the stairs, facing us. His upper body hunched, breaths shallow and erratic.

“Please…” His labored huffs are painful to hear. “She st-stabbed me.” He looks down at his crimson T-shirt and pats his chest, then sobs again. “Oh god. Oh my god. I need help.” He inserts a finger through his shirt and touches what I’m guessing is open flesh, his eyes in disbelief.

Cora takes a step and faces him. Her body is rigid, taut. He is unstable, weakened, his legs shaking in an effort to remain upright. Caleb is a strong kid and has three or four inches on my sister, but right now, she is the only threat in the house.

“Please…” He reaches a hand out and places it on her right shoulder. Not in aggression but for support. “I don’t…I don’t understand why—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Cora arcs her right hand—the clutched fist holding the open blade—high above her head, then brings the knife directly into the flesh above Caleb’s clavicle, the soft area between his neck and shoulder. It makes a sound I’ve never heard before and know will never leave me for the rest of my life.

She releases her hand, leaving the knife inside him.

Caleb’s eyes bulge, a mix of surprise and horror.

“How does that feel?” she asks him. Her voice isn’t even angry. If anything, it’s flirty.

Caleb stumbles, loses his balance, then falls backward down the flight of hardwood stairs. It sounds like a bowling ball being rolled down the steps, and as he reaches the landing, there’s a nauseating