The Dead Husband Carter Wilson (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

appreciate the…circumstances of your recent move here to Bury. It must be exceptionally difficult. We have spoken with the other student, but we can’t confirm she said those things.”

I try to shake off what Max has just whispered to me and focus back on Halliday. “What do you mean ‘confirm’? Of course she’s not going to admit to it. Why would she? They’re sixth graders.”

She takes a step forward and places a hand on my shoulder. It’s forced, like a tip out of a sensitivity-training seminar she was loath to take. “New schools are tough, I get that. I’m sure Max will fit in just fine. We’re happy to have him back tomorrow. Clean slate.”

This woman, she’s just doing her job. And of course I’d want any kid who threatened my son disciplined as well. But I struggle to keep this rational mindset. What I actually feel is fury. Fury at every little circumstance that led to this moment, at every decision made by myself and others that ended with Max hauled into this room.

My irrational mindset tell me how delicious it would be to grab Halliday’s hand and pull her wrist back until it broke.

But I do nothing.

I say nothing.

She drops her hand from my shoulder and I take a deep breath, escaping inside myself for the few seconds it takes to regain my mental footing.

“Fine,” I concede. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Come on, Max.”

Halliday presses her lips together in a satisfied smile. I don’t say anything else as I lead Max by the hand.

As we leave, I can’t wash away the seething rage. Max’s comment comes back to my mind, but this time, it’s as relatable as it is concerning.

I wanted to hurt her.

Fifteen

September 29

I have one hour. One free hour of time to get writing done, and I’ve made the unspeakable mistake of leaving my phone on. A writer’s worst enemy is distraction, and nothing serves that role better than the gleaming screen of my iPhone.

It buzzes. A text.

I look down. It’s from Cora. Just three words.

What the fuck?

I have no idea what she means or even if I’m the one she intended to text. I reply simply:

?

Seconds later, she texts again.

The book. Your book. U at home?

I tell her I am. She says she’s coming over. That we need to talk.

A slow panic begins to rise in me and I push it down.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

Laptop screen closed. I can forget about my free hour. I make another coffee and contemplate adding Kahlúa to it. I don’t. Instead, I walk up to my bedroom and to the box I received a few days ago. Fifteen copies of my latest novel, The Child of the Steps. The book doesn’t release until January, and these are just advance-reader copies intended for reviewers and the media, as well as a few copies the publisher always sends for my own use.

Cora stopped by a few days ago, saw the box, and grabbed a copy for herself. If she’s read any of my other books, it would be news to me. But this book, of all of them, was the one she expressed mild curiosity over. I think it was because they were sitting there in front of her, ripe for the taking.

Or maybe because the cover shows a staircase.

Based on her text, I’m guessing she read the book.

Ten minutes later, I hear the front door open, then slam shut. I can feel my sister’s presence, like a tumor my doctor told me was growing inside my guts.

“Rose?”

“Coming,” I say.

I walk downstairs, taking slower steps than usual.

She’s in the foyer, perfectly put together for whatever she does during the day. She has the copy of my book in her right hand, clutching it like a fire-and-brimstone preacher would a Bible. Weapon-like.

I don’t even make it to the bottom step before she unleashes.

“What the fuck, Rose?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what you texted me. I think you need to be more specific.”

“I mean, what…the…fuck…with this book?”

“It’s a novel, Cora. ‘Novel’ means ‘fiction.’” She’s still staring at me with saucer-sized eyes. “Fiction means it’s not real.”

“I know what fiction is,” she says. “This isn’t fiction. This is our lives.”

“No, it isn’t,” I say. “Not even close.”

“But one element is. The main part of the story.” She raps on the cover of the book, as if I don’t see it in her hand. “The main fucking event is very real. It happened here. In this house.” She glances over my shoulder, and I know what she’s looking at. The stairs. The solid wooden stairs, hard and unforgiving.

I say nothing, and this enrages her.

She slams the book to the floor, as if she could shatter it. It thunks down unharmed, all the words in the same order as they were before.

“You can’t publish this,” she says. Her tone shifts from outright anger to fear, betrayed by the crack in her voice. “You have to stop this. Give the publisher something else.”

I see Cora as I did twenty-two years ago, and it hits me yet again how much of my life has been dictated by what happened in this house back then.

I fled the state for college, compelled to study journalism and criminal justice. Despite being cut off from my father’s money, I vowed never to return to my hometown and took a job with the Chicago Tribune. I worked as an investigative journalist, which, as I’m sure any psychologist would note, was no coincidence.

When I started writing books, I felt my novels creeping closer and closer to reality. In fact, I think the whole reason my character Detective Jenna Black exists has been to get to the point where she is now.

In The Child of the Steps, I face my past head-on, even if it’s disguised as fiction. Yes, it scares the hell out of me to see those words on the printed page. But I also needed to do it. It’s as if writing those scenes made up for the years of the