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

“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 you 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.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“Nope, nope. I’ll let you be. Probably be contacting you again. Or, if the cards play out in your favor, maybe you’ll never hear another word from me.”

Let’s hope for that option, I think.

“Bye, Rose,” he says. “I’ll be keeping any eye out for your next book. I’m sure it’ll be as good as the others.”

I nearly lose my grip on the tomato sauce. A jar crashing to the floor is not the reaction I’d want to give him, or my boss.

Pearson walks a few feet down the aisle before turning back.

“You said ‘concerning my husband,’” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you had nothing to hide ‘concerning your husband.’ It’s just that most people wouldn’t have used a modifier. They’d have just said they had nothing to hide. Period.”

I turn to the shelf and finally place the jar of tomato sauce next to all the others, hiding my face from Pearson.

“You’re reaching now,” I say with my back to him.

I picture him cracking a gentle grin, a cop smirk, the kind that’s supposed to be disarming.

“Maybe I am,” he says. “Can I ask one last question? Just about being an author. I was curious about something.”

“Fine,” I say, turning back to him and crossing my arms.

He nods as if to say thanks and says, “I was thinking of that old piece of advice for authors and was wondering if it is really true.”

“What advice?”

“Write what you know,” he says. “Is that really a thing? Do authors write what they know?”

If Pearson is trying to unnerve me, it’s working. I compose my thoughts the best I can and answer.

“Doesn’t really allow much room for imagination,” I say. “Some of the best parts about writing are discovering new worlds.”

He scans my face, and I keep mine as still as possible. Cops are trained to identify signs of a person being deceitful, simple physical tells. Averting of the eyes. Biting of the lips. Touching the face.

If Pearson registers something about my face, I can’t tell.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he says. “Imagination.” He dwells over the word like a distant memory, then snaps his attention back to me and adds, “Say, you ever read Clara Tomson? Mystery writer, like you.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. “No,” I say. Pearson certainly asked me this for a very specific reason, and because of that, I say nothing else, not wanting to go wherever it is he’s hoping to lure me. I do, however, etch the author’s name in my mind, because I sure as hell am looking this person up when I get home. Clara Thompson.

“Oh, okay. Just thought I’d ask.” He holds a beat but I remain steadfast in my silence. Pearson then thanks me again and walks away. As I return to stocking the jars, I notice the tremors in my hands.

Maybe ten seconds elapse before John, my manager, scurries up from behind.

“He said he was with the Milwaukee police.” John comes around to the side and I look at him. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitches, and his eyes are wide with weird, nervous excitement, like a cat that doesn’t know what to do with the bird it’s just maimed. “What’d he want with you?”

It’s none of your goddamn business, I want to scream. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? Why do you all have to ask so many questions? I