The Dead Husband

by Carter Wilson

  In her absence, he leaned back in his chair and tried to massage the bias from his brain. There was a big difference between being attuned to suspicious behavior and trying to shoehorn some narrative into a predetermined judgment of guilt. Rose Yates was innocent until someone other than Colin said otherwise. It was just his job to ask some questions.

  But…goddamn it. There was guilt in the air, he was sure of it. Maybe it wasn’t even her. Hell, the whole house felt guilty.

  When she returned, cup in hand, Colin decided to be more direct with his questioning.

  How would you characterize the relationship between you and your husband?

  Were you having issues?

  She replied with mild offense, but it had an air of desperation to it. Trying too hard, Colin thought. She said all couples had issues, and she and Riley were no exception. He poked and prodded into this as best he could, but she put up a wall he couldn’t penetrate.

  Then he’d told Rose he’d read all her books.

  “Well, that makes an even dozen of you now,” she said.

  “I read them back-to-back,” Colin said. “Real quick, like two days each. And each one got better. More suspenseful, you know? You can really see how you were progressing as an author. Your main character, Jenna Black, she doesn’t get boring. You keep her fresh.”

  Rose took a moment, then leaned forward toward him. Body-language experts would deem it a subtly aggressive move. “This is the part where you tell me the thing you really came here for.”

  He matched her posture. “Well, now, Rose. I’m not trying to make things sound so sinister or anything. And you, having interviewed so many cops with all your research and all, I’m sure you can appreciate that something in your books made me a little curious.”

  “The Broken Child.”

  “Correct. Your third book. Or I guess I should say J. L. Sharp’s third book. You can understand why a scene where an abusive husband is poisoned by his wife might arouse some interest.”

  “Riley wasn’t poisoned. It was an accidental overdose.”

  Colin scratched the back of his hand though it didn’t itch. “Still, you can see where that scene piqued my curiosity a bit. Piqued. That’s the right word, isn’t it?”

  “Detective, if I were guilty of all the crimes my characters have committed, I’d be on death row a hundred times over.”

  He held eye contact and she didn’t back away, though she seemed to want to look anywhere but his face. “Oh, sure. I’m well aware of that, Rose. Like I said, I’m not trying to spook you. This is pretty routine stuff. But I wouldn’t be doing what the citizens of Wisconsin pay me to do if I’d not followed up with a couple of questions. Want to be thorough.”

  He’d tried to slip back into a folksy charm but it was too late. The cloud that passed over Rose’s face assured him so.

  “I’m going to say this once.” Rose reached over and grabbed the recorder. Colin thought she was going to turn it off, but she actually held it to her mouth as she spoke. “I’m assuming you’ve never lost a spouse, so you can’t understand what it’s like, expecting to see them in the morning getting ready for the day only to find them still in bed. Then to go over and touch them, only to feel that unnatural cold on their skin. To know they’d been taking sleeping pills and anxiety pills for years, all the while mixing them with alcohol, and they were always fine. What they needed to sleep at night. And you…you eventually stopped protesting. Because, after all, they always got up in the morning, right? And then, one day, they don’t. Gone.”

  Colin watched every tick of her face, every shift of her eyes. If she was lying, she was good. But he had run into more than his fair share of good liars in his work.

  “I’m not offended by your questions,” she continued. “I know you have a job to do. But I can see the eagerness in your face, the hope you might make some kind of name for yourself with your new department. But I can tell you this: you won’t make it from this case. You won’t make it from me. Whether Riley’s death was accidental or maybe something he secretly wanted, I’m not sure I’ll ever know. But I would never hurt someone I loved.”

  There were many key words in what she’d just said, and Colin would surely go over the transcript of the recording many times dissecting them, but one word stood out above all others. It stood out because it had the clearest ring of a lie, more than anything else.

  “So you loved him, then?”

  She rose, and that was that.

  “If you need to speak with me again, you can contact my lawyer.”

  Twenty-Four

  The moment he leaves, a dull throb begins in my head, a manifestation of anxiety. As is the tightness in my chest and the sudden glaze of warm sweat inside my armpits. I try to calm myself with a few deep breaths, but it’s like trying to meditate while drowning.

  Detective Pearson didn’t want to know about my distant past. I was paranoid to think he did. My distant past has nothing to do with Milwaukee, so a Milwaukee cop would know nothing about something that happened twenty-two years ago in Bury, New Hampshire.

  I pull back the thick mahogany drapes from the living room window and peek outside as Pearson gets in the patrol car, where he sits and talks with the Bury cop. Who was it? Timmons? Simmons?

  Our conversation didn’t end the way I wanted. I didn’t want to threaten getting a lawyer, but the alternative was to answer Pearson’s questions, and I saw no good end to that. Every cop I’ve ever interviewed for my research has told me it’s usually the best move for a suspect to lawyer up, but it always reinforces the perception of guilt.

  How would you characterize your relationship with your husband?

  Well, Detective, it was pretty damn bleak. We’d been growing apart for some time, and then I recently found out he was screwing his business partner, who is younger, firmer, and way richer than me. Riley wanted to save our marriage but I wasn’t able to move forward emotionally with him. We continued living together while planning how best to separate.

  In the final months leading up to his death, Riley grew bitter.

  Bitter and angry.

  Riley wasn’t prone to anger, and even in his worst moments, he just tended to be sullen. But not long before he died, that changed. I’d told him I’d had enough of sharing the apartment and was going to find my own place, even though I could scarcely afford it. I needed out. We’d share Max fifty-fifty and figure out a schedule as we moved toward divorce.

  Maybe Riley had still been clinging to a hope that we’d remain together, or perhaps he just didn’t like me making the final decision. But the sullenness became anger.

  Searing anger.

  You want to leave me? What the hell are you going to do with your life? You’re incapable of making money. How’re you going to pay for a place?

  Name-calling.

  You’re just a selfish bitch, you know that? You’re ruining our family.

  Threats over Max.

  If you think I’m going to let you take him away, you’re out of your mind. In fact, I’ll sue for full custody.

  Riley changed into another person in those last weeks, a desperate, needy, and hateful little boy. I should have left sooner. Should have taken Max and stayed with friends. But a part of me was convinced I could stabilize Riley, get him to accept our marriage was over and we both needed to get on with our lives. We were still going to have to raise Max together, and I wanted Riley in a more grounded place before I left.

  I thought that would be the best thing for Max.

  But Riley didn’t stabilize. He got worse.

  I should have anticipated that.

  Riley started drinking earlier in the day and finishing later at night, always capped off with his prescription sleeping pills, which would knock him out until late in the morning. He stopped looking for work, hardly left the apartment, hardly spoke to either Max or me. Just broode
d like a sullen child convinced the world was out to get him.

  But for all his horrible behavior, he was never violent. I was never scared of him.

  I should’ve been.

  The light of my world remains blocked by the black mass of all my should’ves.

  On that last night, the last of his life, he walked into our bedroom while I was folding laundry on the bed. I could tell he was already several drinks in on the evening. He thought I was packing, that I was leaving him that night, and he flipped out.

  What the hell are you doing?

  I’m just folding laundry.

  No, you’re not. You want to go, Rose? Just go already. I’m sick of you. Sick of seeing your face. You’re ugly, you know that? Ugly.

  You don’t understand the only reason I put up with this is I keep hoping you’ll straighten out enough to have a rational conversation about us.

  I’m straight as an arrow, baby. So get the fuck out.

  If you want me to leave now, then I’m taking Max with me.

  No, you aren’t. He doesn’t go anywhere.

  Riley, I don’t trust you alone with him. Not with the way you’ve been behaving. Not with how much you’ve been drinking.

  You think I’d hurt my own son? Is that what you’re saying?

  I’m saying you’re in no shape to be a single parent right now.

  There’s only one person in this apartment I want to hurt.

  With that last statement, Riley turned and slammed his fist into the wall next to the bed. Bam. His hand disappeared through the drywall as if it were nothing more than rice paper; I think he was even more surprised than me. He just stood there, fist still in the wall, seconds passing, until finally his shoulders slumped, his head lowered, and he began to cry. Not just cry but sob. Sob like I’d never heard him do before, a complete and total capitulation to his circumstances, an abandonment of hope. He finally pulled his fist out and slid down the wall to the floor, where he wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his forehead on top of them. He didn’t bother to look up as I backed out of the room.

  Max was in the hallway, just out of eyeshot of the bedroom. I didn’t know if he’d been watching, but he certainly had heard everything. This couldn’t continue. I had to take him out of there.

  I raced into the hall and pulled Max in toward me.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him, not thinking of anything else to say. We had moved well past the sometimes-parents-argue phase in our family dynamic.

  He squeezed me back and asked a question I couldn’t make out. I leaned him back so I could see his face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. He’s just…just angry at the world right now. But it’s not your fault. You know that, right?”

  He looked up at me, his eyes fixed on mine. “Were you scared?”

  And in that moment, I was honest with him, because I had no one else I could share with.

  “A little,” I admitted.

  But that wasn’t altogether true.

  I was a lot scared.

  Riley had changed. Now he wasn’t just a man I no longer loved. He was a threat. First he hits the wall. Then what? And what would I be willing to do to secure the safety of my son and me?

  How would you characterize your relationship with your husband?

  No way I was going to tell Detective Pearson all those things. No way I was going to tell him how, after calling 911 that morning I found Riley dead, I hung a picture over the hole in the wall to avoid questions about there having been a fight. Or how I had a neighbor take Max that morning so it would be harder for the police to ask him any direct questions. And I got lucky. I got Detective Cooper assigned to the case, and he was quick to tell me he was retiring in a few days and promptly declared Riley’s death an accidental overdose.

  I’m not stupid. I’ve talked to enough cops to know the questions Cooper should have asked, the same questions Pearson is asking now. The truth about how Riley died doesn’t matter. What matters is how it looks, and I’m not going to fuel more speculation by volunteering information about how my marriage had imploded.

  Now, as I continue to stare out my window at the police car, I see movement to my right. It takes me a moment to focus, and at first my mind rejects who I’m seeing, but my eyes soon provide concrete evidence. It’s Tasha Collins, and she’s walking a dog outside my house.

  Of all people. At this point in time.

  Tasha Collins.

  She either lives in this neighborhood or she’s trolling me, and I can’t decide which option is more plausible. In the moment, it doesn’t matter.

  She’s walking a chalk-white standard poodle, its head held perfectly straight like a schoolgirl in the 1950s walking with a book on her head to perfect her posture.

  Tasha slows as she moves past the police cruiser parked in front of my father’s house. She lets her dog sniff around my lawn, as if hoping to find some bodies. She looks the cop car up and down, then turns her head and spies me through the open drapes. My impulse is to duck away, but I fight against it. I maintain direct eye contact with her, and Tasha’s eyes narrow as she homes in on me. She nods, I don’t. She turns away first, but before she does, she allows herself a little smile. A smug little grin.

  I’m tempted to go out and tell her there was a suspicious person going house to house and I called the police. But I only consider the idea, and my feet never move from where they’re planted.

  Moments later, Tasha and her dog move on, her pace more brisk as if she’s anxious to get home. The cruiser finally pulls away from the curb and rolls gently away.

  As I keep staring out the window, I can’t push away the feeling that a dreadful series of events has just been set in motion.

  My job is to figure out how to stop it.

  Twenty-Five

  October 17

  Six hours of sleep in the last two days; fatigue and anxiety battle with great ferocity to see which gets the honor of killing me.

  I’m two hours into my four-hour Saturday shift at Tuli’s and am desperate to get out of here. Anxiety is winning the war at the moment, and despite my exhaustion, I have energy far beyond what’s needed to stock shelves, which is what I’m doing.

  “Hi, Rose.”

  I turn and find the cause of my sleepless nights standing behind me. Detective Pearson.

  He’s dressed more casually than when he came to my father’s home two days ago. Long-sleeved white dress shirt, jeans, sneakers, and sunglasses hooked into the vee of his shirt. I don’t see any gun visible, but there’s no way a detective walks around unarmed. I flick my gaze down and see the slight bulge on the lower part of his right leg. Ankle holster.

  He has neither a shopping cart nor a basket.

  “You’re still here,” I say.

  “I am.”

  “The Milwaukee PD must have quite a budget.”

  “I’m not staying in luxury accommodations. I’m leaving later today.”

  I’m holding a jar of organic tomato sauce, which suddenly feels more like a weapon in my hand than an item to shelve.

  “What do you want, Detective?”

  He shifts his footing, placing his right foot back just enough to suggest a defensive stance. Subtle, but I notice.

  “I’d like to talk to you one more time before I leave. A bit more formally, down at the Bury police station.”

  My gut tightens.

  “Just to clear up a few little things?” I ask, recalling Pearson’s initial approach to me on Thursday.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “I recall telling you if you wanted to speak to me again, you had to go through my lawyer.”

  “Well, I don’t know who your lawyer is any more than I know who your dentist is,” he says. “But if you feel you really need a lawyer, I suggest y
ou give them a call. Have them meet us down at the station.”

  I lower the jar in my hand, squeezing it, the muscles in my forearm tightening.

  “I’m in the middle of a shift right now,” I say.

  “I’m sure your boss will understand.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” I say. Pearson’s face doesn’t wear the aw shucks humility of a few days ago. He looks like a man unwilling to take no for an answer. “Am I under arrest?”

  I’ve imagined having to ask that question before. More than once. But it’s terrifying to do it, to speak those words to an actual detective.

  “No, Rose, you’re not. You don’t have to go with me. And I suspect you know I’ll tell you it’s in your best interest to do as I ask. You probably think that’s just a ploy to get you to talk, and sometimes it is, no doubt. But the god’s honest truth is, if you don’t have anything to worry about, then you will be helping yourself if you come in for an interview.”

  I look down the aisle past Pearson and spot my shift manager, John Ridley, staring at us. John’s the type of boss who’d get annoyed if he thinks I’m having a personal conversation at work. He’s in his fifties, unmarried, and clings to his ounces of low-grade power. I can only imagine John’s reaction if he knew what Pearson and I are talking about.

  I shift my gaze back to Pearson. “You’re far from convinced of my innocence. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come all the way out here in the first place. I have nothing to hide concerning my husband, but I have nothing to gain by talking to you. I need to get back to work.”

  “Did you know your life-insurance premium payments weren’t up to date?” he asks. “Did you handle the bills, or did your husband?”

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “I see,” Pearson says, pushing his hands in his pockets. “Well, that’s a shame, Rose, I’ll tell you. I was really hoping we could get a chance to clear the air, but I guess I’ll have to do a little more digging. I would’ve thought you’d have wanted to put all this behind you, move on with your grieving process. But it’s your call, and I have to respect that.”