THE DEEP END Read Online Free PDF

“You’re not staying married because of me, are you?”
    Yes.
    I couldn’t tell her that. Not when her knuckles were white around the chicken salad and unshed tears glimmered against her lashes. I took a sip of wine, swallowed around the lump in my throat, rubbed the tip of my nose, and lied.
    “Of course not. It’s complicated.”
    “It’s not complicated. You sleep in different rooms. You barely speak to each other. When you do, it’s as if you’re talking to strangers. Unless you’re painting, you look miserable. You never smile.”
    “I smile all the time.”
    Grace tossed her hair. “Gritting your teeth and pursing your lips isn’t smiling. Dad never smiles either. Why do you want to live like that? You both deserve to be with people who make you happy.”
    The wine bottle definitely didn’t look half-empty anymore. Not remotely. Especially not after I poured myself another glass. “I thought most kids wanted their parents to stay together.” That’s what the counselor had said, and the child psychologist, and the shrink.
    The sound Grace made was a cross between a sob and a guffaw. “You’re always worried about everyone else. Don’t be.” She dredged up a shaky smile. “Besides, there’s Christmas math.”
    “Christmas math?”
    “Christmas. Birthdays. Any holiday that involves gifts. Divorced parents mean twice the loot.”
    It was my turn to swipe at a tear clinging to my lashes. Grace cared as much about loot as I did about football. Not at all. My arms ached to hug her. To create a circle where nothing could hurt her. I wished we were one of those families that actually expressed emotion. One that yelled and sobbed and laughed and hugged—all over spilled milk. We weren’t. I took a step forward. Brushed a strand of hair away from Grace’s face then dropped a dry kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t worry about your father and me. We’ll figure things out.”
    She sniffled. “The cop is cute.”
    I laughed. A strangled, choking kind of laugh. The kind of laugh that escapes your lips when you realize your daughter feels responsible for your unhappiness. “I suppose.”
    “You should go for it.”
    “Go for what?” Detective Jones stood just outside the kitchen door.
    I wondered how much he’d heard and felt a flush worthy of a teenager rise to my cheeks. “Take out.” I forced my hand to remain at my side. It wanted to rub my nose. “Grace isn’t in the mood for chicken salad. She wants Chinese.”
    “You should stay for dinner.” Grace shot me a watery grin.
    I glared at her. If she wasn’t careful, there’d be another murder. I scanned the rack of heavy copper pots that hung above the stove. Surely one of them would do as a weapon.
    Detective Jones offered her an amused smile. “Thank you for the invitation, but I can’t stay.”
    “Another time?” she asked.
    The man flushed.
    I took the container from my daughter’s hands and put it back in the fridge. “Detective Jones has a job to do. I’m sure he’s very busy.” I was also sure he didn’t dine with suspects. It was probably against the rules. Besides, he had to go track down my cheating, lying, on-the-run-but-please-God-not-a-murderer husband.
    Four

      
    We stood around the kitchen island and wondered what to say next. Grace examined her nails, I examined the level of wine in my glass, and Detective Jones examined the painting hanging above the breakfast table.
    What are you supposed to say to a man who thinks you—or your husband—has committed a murder? “Did you talk to Roger?”
    “Roger Harper? I did.”
    Was I imagining the disapproval in his voice? Surely Roger was a suspect too?
    The phone rang and Grace lunged for the receiver. “Hello.”
    She listened for a moment then turned to me. “I’m going to take this in your room.” She handed me the phone and disappeared. When I heard her pick up the bedroom extension, I hung up the receiver.
    “Ellie, are you here?” a welcome voice