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

keep the date. The hell with it, I thought. I look like shit and am barely keeping things together. I need someone to see the real me.

So here I am with this man who is little more than a stranger, and I have this incessant, looping thought that he’s the only person in the world who can save me from myself. I don’t even know what that means, but the irrationality of the thought does nothing to keep it from fading.

We’ve spent the last thirty minutes with pleasant small talk, of which I’ve been letting him do the most. During a brief lull in the conversation, he clears his throat and asks, “How are you, Rose?”

Such a simple question. In fact, one he even asked when we first saw each other tonight, and I replied with my usual fine. But how he just asked it was different from before. This time, his words were laced with concern.

I exhale, as if accepting I’ve been caught in a lie.

“Life is hard,” I say.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Anything in particular?”

I want to tell him nothing. I want to tell him everything. I start somewhere in between.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Milwaukee cop coming to visit me.”

He nods, his gaze steady and assuring. “I might’ve heard something about that. Small town and all.”

Yeah, I think. And Tasha Collins makes sure word travels fast.

“Something about your husband’s death?” he adds.

“Yeah.”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

I look around the bar, which is three-quarters full on a Friday night. It’s loud enough in here no one can overhear us, and I don’t recognize any of the other faces. Still, we’re exposed.

Turning back to him I say, “I… They have questions about his death.”

“What kind of questions?”

Exhale. Close my eyes. Get the words out while trying to keep my heart from racing. “They aren’t convinced it was accidental.”

I don’t open my eyes. It’s safer in here.

“But you already know this, don’t you?” I add.

I hear him say mmm-hmm.

“Because of your horrible ex-wife, right?”

He chuckles, and that gets me to open my eyes. “She mentioned something about a book club where you got upset. And then she saw the cops at your place. Add that to the fact that she’s friends with Lisa Simmons, who’s the wife of a Bury cop, and she probably figured out more than you want people to know.”

“I really hate her,” I say.

He lifts his beer bottle, and I clink my glass against it. “Here’s to things we have in common,” he says.

“Cheers.” I sip and know I’ll be wanting a third whiskey before too long. “So tell me what she thinks she knows.”

Alec shrugs. “Well, since you asked. In short, she thinks they might be treating the case as a murder.”

This is the first time I’ve talked about this with someone outside my family, and there’s relief with it. Relief and horror, like a Catholic teen’s first confession.

“And so, knowing this, you still decided to come here tonight?” I ask. “You weren’t concerned about having a drink with a murderer?”

He smiles. “It’s why I chose a public place.”

“Seriously,” I say. “Why would you want anything to do with me?”

Alec sips. “You didn’t kill anyone, Rose.”

The words rip open my chest and squeeze my heart, a horrible, beautiful pain.

“What…what makes you say that?”

Then he puts his hands on the table, palms up, on either side of the solitary burning candle.

“Give me your hands,” he says.

I don’t. I just stare at him, feeling the stinging glisten in my eyes.

“It’s okay,” he says. His voice is deep, calm. Confident.

I hesitate a moment, then place my hands on top of his. He gently grasps them, enveloping my fingers with his.

“These aren’t the hands of a killer. No…” He looks down at my hands for just a second and then locks into my gaze. “I don’t think you’d hurt anyone.”

And with that, I lose it. Right there, in this classy tapas bar named after decay, I sob. I can’t control it, and after the first few gasps, I don’t even care. It’s as if my ability to maintain control has been a balloon filling with water and Alec just added that one final drop, the one that made me burst. I pull my hands from his and cover my eyes, feeling the heat radiating from my face.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” I choke. “Just…give me…”

I cry under the weight of all I’ve carried for so long. The weight of this town, of Cora and my father. The weight of Riley. And, the heaviest of all, the weight of Caleb Benner’s ghost.

To his credit, Alec gives me my space and time, saying nothing else. I’m not loud, but I’m certain anyone at a nearby table notices this scene. Again, I don’t care, and I don’t think I could stop this if I wanted. It has to come out.

I don’t know how much time passes. An eternity in minutes. At last, I pull my hands down and look at Alec through burning eyes.

“Can we get out of here?” I ask.

He nods.

Thirty-Six

We’re sitting in the front seat of his car, engine on, heat blowing, seat warmers blazing, going nowhere. When we left Rust, he started driving, and when he asked where to, I said nowhere, followed by anywhere. So we’re cruising gently through the night, up and down the streets of Bury, like cops on a patrol. He isn’t asking questions. He isn’t trying to give advice. Alec is silent, just being the person I need him to be in this moment.

Ten minutes pass. I wipe my eyes again and break the silence.

“I could hurt someone if I had to.”

He glances over. “’Scuse me?”

I stare directly out the windshield, watching the headlight beams sweep the empty residential street in front of us.

“You held my hands and said you didn’t think I could hurt anyone. But you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of doing.”

He takes this in for