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

Finally, he says, “Yeah, I’d like that. I could use a friend, too.”

Thirty-Two

Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin

November 1

When Colin came over to his mother’s house, she wasn’t nearly done with her ranting. He’d let himself in, expecting her to be upstairs in her bedroom, medicated by gin and edging close to sleep. But she was in a small carpeted alcove next to the dining room, the spot where his parents always sat after his father came home from work. The place where they had a drink and discussed their respective days. This was a fixture as Colin grew up, and as a boy, he often joined them, munching on the homemade Chex Mix his mom always had out. As he grew older, Colin was less likely to be part of the weeknight ritual and more apt to be up in his room doing homework or out with friends. But he always had good memories, thinking of his parents together in this room, sometimes talking, other times sitting silently and just being together in a harmonious way that only happens when no one says a word.

Now, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else. It was just after eight in the evening, and the house had just enough lights on so Colin could navigate around the piles of junk. There was his mother, pacing back and forth in the alcove like a caged panther, all tension and no space, the ambient light rendering her ghostlike. She figure-eighted around stacks of magazines, an old lamp, and three barstools, muttering to herself as she paced, not even acknowledging Colin’s arrival.

“Goddamn fucking Bryson,” she said. “Bryson took our money.” She repeated variants of this same thing three times before Colin flicked on the alcove light, stopping her in her tracks.

“Who’s Bryson?” he asked. It didn’t really matter to him, but Colin had learned sometimes having her tell him about the subject of her latest outrage was enough to calm her down.

She looked at him with wide eyes and an accusatory look, as if not knowing Bryson was a crime.

“Jerry Fucking Bryson, that’s who,” she said. “Your father worked with him for a few years before Bryson left to start some shithole company decades ago. What did he call it?” She looked around, as if the answer were painted on one of the walls. Then she snapped her head back to Colin. “Craytronics. Yes, that was it. He thought he was so smart. Smart enough to convince your father to invest ten thousand dollars. Bryson promised we’d be millionaires within a decade.”

Colin had never heard this story before, but it didn’t take a detective to see where it was headed.

“Wasn’t even five years before that goddamn company was out of business and our money gone with it. Fucking Bryson didn’t even apologize to us. Said we knew what we were getting into.”

“That’s terrible,” Colin said.

“It’s a crime,” she replied.

“How many drinks have you had?”

“Not enough.”

He sighed, expecting that answer.

“Pour me one more, will you, sweetie?” Her voice was suddenly sweet and light. Her daytime voice. “That’ll calm these nerves, I’m certain.”

“What you need is medication,” Colin said.

“I’m not a junkie,” she snapped, falling back into the anger she had unleashed for the memory of Bryson. She steadied herself, took a breath, and said, “Just one more. Sit with me for one more. Then I’ll go to bed.”

Colin wrestled with his conscience one more time, and once again, he did as he was asked. He would pour her a drink, just as he’d surely give her morphine were she dying of cancer.

“One more,” he said. “Where’s your glass?”

“Kitchen counter.”

Colin burrowed his way to the kitchen, found the glass, and grabbed the gin from the counter. Then he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, one of a twelve-pack he’d brought for himself last week. She didn’t touch his booze, and he didn’t touch hers.

They sat in the alcove, in the chairs where his parents sat together thousands of times, sipping their drinks in silence. Over a period of several minutes, Jackie settled her bones deeper into the well-worn fabric chair, slipping into what appeared a numbness, a memory, and a fog all rolled together. Her gaze fixed on the far wall, and a hint of a lazy smile grew on her lips.

Finally, she said, “Tell me about your day, Thomas.”

His father’s name rang odd to his ears, but not as much as it used to. She’d referred to Colin by her dead husband’s name a half-dozen times by now.

Unsure at first how to respond, Colin choose to simply answer her question.

“I’m investigating this woman. Rose Yates. She’s the reason I had to leave town a couple of weeks ago, remember?”

His mother continued to stare straight ahead but shook her head. “No, I don’t remember you traveling for work.”

He’d spoken in bits and pieces about Rose Yates to his mother, but she always had trouble recalling things at night. Were they having this conversation in the morning, Colin was sure she’d know exactly who he was talking about.

So he started from the beginning, from the moment he was assigned the Riley McKay case. He took his time, filling in all the details, as he knew she was comforted by the company. It also benefited him, because hashing the case out aloud helped him identify weaknesses and potential opportunities.

She said nothing, and Colin briefly wondered if she thought she was listening to her husband speak about his day at work and why on earth he was investigating a potential murder. Or maybe she was already lost in some other world, one Colin would someday know but couldn’t comprehend now, a world of spiderwebs and smoke, a mind lost.

All he knew was he was talking to himself, and that was okay. Colin finished his beer and grabbed another. His mother was still nursing her last drink, a good sign she was done for the night.

Sitting back down, he said, “Truth is, I don’t have enough to warrant extradition