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

his number. It only existed on my phone, which I hadn’t backed up since before I met him.

I go to Facebook and log in, hoping I can find him on there. I haven’t looked at Facebook in nearly a year, having abandoned social media after I discovered my husband’s infidelity.

I’m immediately assaulted with an outpouring of grief on my wall, scores of messages from friends expressing utter disbelief about Riley’s death. I have forty-eight unread messages and two hundred and twelve notifications. A quick scroll reveals a Bible’s worth of sentiments (praying for you, thoughts and prayers) and more heart and sad-face emojis than my mind can count. The postings are all from July.

After a few moments, I shake myself out of the stupor and search Alec’s name. I find him quickly—his beautiful smile radiating from the tiny profile photo—and friend-request him. Three minutes and a lifetime pass, and he accepts. Thank god.

My phone is dead, I write in a private message. I didn’t know how else to contact you. How did Max do last night? Did he try to call me?

Pulsing dots tell me he’s writing back.

Morning. Assume you saw school’s closed. All good here. Max had a couple rough moments last night but did okay overall. He tried calling but it went straight to voicemail. Making breakfast now. Pick him up whenever. No rush.

Another shovelful of guilt piles on top of the mountain I’ve already created.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to reply, but I hesitate. I have a haunting suspicion anything else I say will sound guilty, something that would be potentially damning evidence in a trial.

I don’t answer. Instead, I delete the message thread, knowing how meaningless the act is. Nothing disappears on the internet.

I throw the sheet and blanket off me, realizing how weak I am for the first time. Swing my legs over, stand, then brace against a wave of dizziness. I’m not even hungover. More like still drunk. I didn’t have more than half of that first drink…vodka something.

Steadying myself, I look down at my clothes. Same thing I was wearing last night, and there’s a small but not insignificant splatter of blood on my jeans.

I close my eyes against the sight of it, but I can’t close my memory. Of Cora’s head splitting open.

I’m frantic to divert my thoughts so I lumber to the window, pull back the curtain, and rest my forehead against the cold glass, grateful for the chill. White everywhere, easily another six inches of snow. The world outside is beautiful. The world inside is a chamber of horrors.

My urge is to rush to Max, but I need something else first. I need to understand what happened last night. After Cora.

I attempt a deep breath but end up coughing. Open the bedroom door, walk down the hallway, pause at the top of the stairs. The wooden steps appear sharp. Treacherous.

I descend. One flight, then two.

I look over to the wall at the bottom of the staircase, where in my dream I saw the painting of the rainbow and the field. There’s nothing there. Nothing has ever been there.

Through the foyer, down the hallway toward the study. The house is as silent as a house could be. A tomb.

Abril, I think, panicking. What if Abril shows up?

I see the entrance to the study, twenty feet away.

I don’t want to go in there.

I have to go in there.

My steps grow smaller.

As I close in, there’s a smell. The aroma of chemicals. Bleach.

Ten feet away. Five.

I reach the entrance. It’s dark, the wooden shutters pulled closed. There’s a diffused glow from the outside light escaping through cracks, but not enough to see what I need to see.

I reach in, flick on the lights, clench my stomach.

Breathe out. Breathe in.

Nothing.

Well, except the smell of chemicals. And there, I notice. The area rug is gone. And…the set of fireplace tools. Also gone.

Otherwise, the room is normal and immaculate. Not a book out of place. Not a drink glass touched. I walk inside, not wanting to. The chair I was sitting in is back in place. A few more steps, over to…to where it happened.

No trace of my sister. No blood on the floor. Nothing but the smell, which is stronger here. I lower to my knees, lean over, and sniff the hardwood floor where she died.

The acrid fumes bolt up my nostrils, making me jerk back.

“Took me all night.”

I scream. I can’t help it.

My father is standing in the doorway. He’s not in a suit. Jeans, polo shirt. Sneakers. As if he’s going out to watch the regatta.

He leans against the doorframe. Folds his arms and studies me.

“What…” I struggle to focus. “What happened? I don’t remember.”

“You were hysterical,” he says. “I gave you something to sleep.”

“You did?”

He nods. “Knocked you out. You needed it.”

Jesus. My father drugged me. Sleep meds and alcohol. The symbolism of it all.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“The less you know, the better.”

“I know a lot already.” I’m still on my knees and lean back to sit on my heels. “I didn’t want to do it.”

“I know. We went through this last night. You were inconsolable.” He sweeps his gaze along the floor where Cora died. “I’m not sure she would’ve felt the same way.”

The tears start to come again but I can’t. I just can’t. I’ve pushed through to some other side where crying doesn’t even provide relief.

Still on my knees, I lower my head for a moment, the weight of the last twelve hours overtaking me. Then I look to him. To Logan Yates, the man behind the curtain of everything.

“I didn’t want to kill her,” I say.

“I know, Rosie.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

This elicits a deeper squint, a flex of the arms.

“You work so hard to protect a family of poison,” I say. “I loved Cora, I think. In a weird way. A nostalgic way.” I stare into him, deep into him. I don’t dare look away. I don’t dare blink. “But I never loved