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

vehicle in the parking lot of the Chester Woodall trailhead. Oh, right, I think. Chester Woodall, that’s his last name. The guy Bury was originally named for. They took away the town name and gave him a hiking trail.

Snow swirls and coils around my car, and I think this is perhaps what the inside of a genie bottle looks like. The outside winds make this short of a blizzard but more than just a snowfall. The dashboard tells me it’s twenty-three degrees, and I wonder for another time why Cora wanted to meet out here.

Moments later, headlights slice through the falling snow and illuminate the inside of my car. Seconds after that, Cora eases her Land Rover into the space next to mine. Ours are the only two vehicles in the lot.

She turns off her car, kills her lights.

For a moment, I’m watching this as I would a movie. Trying to understand the motivation of the character in the adjacent car. Why are we meeting out here, in this weather, at night? Is it for the privacy, or something else?

Woof.

I do a mental inventory of everything in this car. My father keeps it clean, so there aren’t random items lying about, but I don’t know what could be in the closed-off areas. I quickly check the center console and the glove compartment, finding them empty save the car registration and manual. Typical for my father, who despises anything considered clutter.

I check the pockets behind the front seats. Again, empty. In the trunk, there has to be a spare tire, and thus a tire iron.

If I need a weapon, that’s my only hope.

Weapon. Against my sister. This is where we are in our lives.

She raps on my window, making me jump. I didn’t even see her out there. My fingers find the button on the door and I lower the window. A burst of snowflakes immediately seeks asylum in the car, only to meet their deaths by the heated air vents.

“Outside,” she says. The scent of her perfume yanks me back twenty-two years. Smell is the most powerful memory, and I know with certainty she’s wearing Calvin Klein’s CK One, just as she did as a teenager. Just as she did that night.

“It’s awful out there.”

“It’s perfect,” she says.

If a character in one of my books didn’t want to talk inside a car, it would be because they were afraid the car was bugged. And though I’m pretty sure Cora doesn’t suspect this, the thought does spark an idea. I should be recording our conversation. In fact, I’d be crazy not to.

I roll up the window and wait until the interior light dims, then quickly unlock my phone and launch the voice recorder app, which I use for story notes. I press Record and then slide the phone into the snug front pocket of my jeans.

Deep breath. Then I get out of the car.

She’s standing a few feet away. Three halogen lamps account for all the light in the lot. Beyond that and onto the trail, darkness reigns. It’s snowing harder now and the flakes are dense and wet, the kind that bring down trees with enough accumulation. I flip up the hood of my jacket against the onslaught.

“I wanted to talk, not catch pneumonia,” I say. “Why are we out here?”

“You don’t like it here?”

“No, not particularly. Not in the moment.”

“So you don’t know what’s special about this place, then.”

“Should I?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, my sister says, “I think you want to be careful how you talk to my family. Willow told me what you said to her. You said things you had no right saying.”

If this is what she wants to talk about, I’m happy to engage, because my ammunition stockpile dwarfs hers. “You told her I killed Riley. And she was telling Max that while you were upstairs having sex.”

This catches her off guard, but only for a moment. “Did you like what you heard?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“He likes to be dominated, you know.” With her bright eyes gleaming in the amber streetlight, her smooth skin, perfect blond hair, and freckles of snow collecting on her baby-blue wool hat, Cora looks right out of an L.L. Bean Christmas catalog. “You wouldn’t think it,” she continues. “So tall. So strong. Confident. But he’s not happy unless he’s bleeding. You know, just a little.” She winks. “It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

“Your family is so messed up.”

“Our family,” she corrects.

I know my sister isn’t right. I’ve known that for a long time. She’s a broken toy glued and painted over so it still gleams from the outside, but if you were to shake her, you’d hear the loose parts rattle within. “Cora, did you really kill that dog?”

She looks me up and down, smiling. “Now why on earth would I do something like that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“I don’t have anything against Tasha. I mean, I hardly know her. It seems to me the only person who would want to threaten her is you, Little Sister.”

This was what I expected her to say and what I hoped she wouldn’t. I wipe a thin layer of melted snow out of my eyes. “You killed her dog so she’d suspect me. Everything you’re doing is to set me up. Make me look guilty for Riley.” I lean in, whispering in the absence of any others. “For Caleb. Jesus, Cora, after all I did for you. For all the secrets I’ve kept.”

“I don’t think you have anything to be afraid of,” she says. “Unless, of course, your prints are on a missing steak knife from Dad’s kitchen.”

This hits me with an unexpected right hook. “You used one of Dad’s knives and left it at the scene?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure whoever did such a terrible thing would’ve kept the knife as insurance. Ready to plant it at any time.”

“There’s a higher likelihood Dad’s prints are on there than mine.”

She shrugs. “All I know is mine aren’t on it.”

I take a small step back, almost expecting