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

better than the others do. Her tight jawline, showing the tension in her face. Her fingertips reddening as she holds her wineglass, revealing her tight grip. I don’t think she likes the attention I’m getting right now. She’s the one who arranged this evening, suggested it even. But in this moment, as her friends are focused solely on me, I think Cora is jealous of her little sister. She’s not used to that.

In the smallest of lulls, she finally makes her move and shifts the focus of the conversation.

“So let’s talk about the book,” she says, holding up a copy of The Broken Child, the third book in the Detective Jenna Black mystery series. “I, for one, thought it was quite good. Kept me entertained while I was on the elliptical, helped pass the time, because those workouts can be so boring. Though I have to say I figured out who the killer was pretty early on.”

No, you didn’t, I think. Now it’s my turn to clench my jaw while offering no more than smiles and nods.

“I agree,” a waif of woman says. I think her name is Jenny. “I was pretty sure who did it. And I also wanted a little romance between Jenna and Bart. It seemed like you were going there, then pulled back.”

“I don’t write a lot of love scenes,” I say. “Violence is easier to write than sex. Though both are equally messy.”

Nothing. Not a single chuckle. These women.

“Her books are more on the dark side,” Cora says. “Though I have to admit, this is the first one I’ve read.” She throws me a hard glare. “And a little bit of her upcoming book. Haven’t finished that one yet, though.”

I shift my gaze away as I listen to them discuss my book. They’re mostly talking to one another now, and I’m just a spectator. A few remark that they liked the book, but there are several who comment it’s not the type they would normally read. Some didn’t finish it, and one didn’t read it at all. I guess she just showed up for the wine.

The discussion lasts fifteen, twenty minutes, and I refill my glass a second time. I never ate dinner and a buzz creeps over me. It’s not quite a pleasant buzz, but numbing enough to loosen me up. Maybe Cora’s friends are nice people, I consider. Maybe they’re not haughty Bury rich bitches who demand the world revolve around them. Maybe I’ll even see some of them again. Perhaps even make a friend.

A friend would be nice.

“Your husband died of an overdose, right?”

The words strike through the numbness, jolting me. The woman who said them sits across from me, her dyed-blond hair worn in a long, straight bob, her fleshy cheeks flush from alcohol. She’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, her body language more aggressive than the others.

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I ask.

“Sylvia.”

“Yes, Sylvia, he did.”

“I Googled you,” she says.

“Okay.”

“There was an article in a Milwaukee newspaper. That’s where you’re from, right?”

“I’m from here,” I say. “But we were living in Milwaukee. I’m not sure how that’s—”

“Sorry, you must think I’m incredibly nosy,” she says, half laughing and not looking the least bit sorry. “But Cora told me a bit about you, and I couldn’t resist Googling you after we agreed to read your book for the club. I saw the article about your husband, and then I read the book. I was just wondering… Is it weird?”

I can only offer the blankest of stares. “Is what weird? Being a widow at the age of thirty-seven?”

She shakes her head. “No. The scene in the book with Connor. The fact that he also dies from an overdose of prescription drugs and alcohol. And that he was about the same age as your husband.”

She sits up and purses her lips in satisfaction, as if she’s just accidentally solved a Rubik’s Cube.

Someone lets out the smallest of gasps. I’m not sure who.

“Jesus, Sylvia,” a woman named Claire says. “What a thing to ask.”

“I’m just saying. I’m curious. Life imitating art.” She leans back against her chair, and it looks like she’s fighting an impulse to smile. “I mean, come on. Doesn’t anyone else find that strange?”

I bore a hole through her with my gaze, and my temperament and the booze work in tandem to make a decision on how to respond.

Fuck this person.

“First,” I say, “yes, you’re right. You are incredibly nosy. Not to mention highly insensitive. Second, the character in the book was murdered. So what the hell are you suggesting?”

She blanches and her smug expression evaporates.

“Look, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Just what?” I say. “You decide it’s okay to bring up my recently deceased husband because you found it strange? And you think I killed him just because I know how to write a mystery novel?”

Her lips curl inward, and she squeezes onto the arms of the chair. “I said no such thing. And I don’t appreciate your tone.”

I swivel my head and scan the others, their faces frozen in the excitement of the moment. They are loving this.

“Are you kidding me?” I say. The night I didn’t want to go to hell has just gone there, but I no longer care. “You don’t appreciate my tone? I don’t appreciate you stalking me online and asking me questions about a personal tragedy you have no understanding or appreciation of. Maybe I’ll go and Google you. Bet I could find out a few things myself. You have no idea how much information a person can find with a little work. And trust me, I’m all about research.”

She doesn’t reply. I say nothing else. The tension in the room is thick, and no one says anything to break it. I expect someone to come to my side, maybe not Cora, but someone.

No one does.

“I think I’ll call it a night,” I say, standing. For a moment, I’m unsteady. Whether it’s the adrenaline or the wine, I sway just for a second before