The Widower's Wife: A Thriller
was more likely to have complained to an office pal than to a neighbor.
    Ryan took a long sip of coffee and stared outside the salt-splattered window. The street was as empty as a Hopper painting, though there were surely people in the shops. Ryan noted nail salons, hair salons, Pilates studios—establishments catering to well-to-do women. A less affluent suburb might have fast food restaurants, but here, if both parents worked, they probably employed a housekeeper or a cook.
    Tom Bacon didn’t appear to have help. But he didn’t come across as a stay-at-home-dad type. The guy didn’t even know how to get his kid a snack.
    Ryan typed himself an instruction to track down any current or former workers in the Bacon home. Nannies. Housecleaners. Service people are great sources. Stay-at-home moms confide in their staff, as they are typically the only other adults around during the day. Women who work in others’ homes are also experts at blending into the background when needed, enabling them to witness arguments.
    Tom wouldn’t just volunteer the name of any mommy’s helper, not if she’d seen anything relevant. Ryan had his work cutout for him. He looked up at the women beside him, now chatting between sips. “Excuse me, misses.”
    Botox Queen liked his choice of prefix. She smiled at him, blank face prepared for a compliment.
    “I recently came to the area. Are there any cleaning services that either of you could recommend?”
    The edges of her plastic smile pulled in without crinkling the skin. “Did you buy in town?”
    He ignored the question. “If we wanted someone to clean a large home . . .”
    “Sorry. My nanny cleans while the kids are in school.”
    The friend sat up straighter. “We’re thinking of getting a service to come in once a month.” She turned to her gym buddy. “I think Madeleine straightens up more than really scrubs, you know? And the kids are always tracking in the salt from outside. It’s ruining the floors.”
    “Which service are you thinking of?” Ryan asked.
    “Robomaids. Everyone in town uses them. They come to your house like an army with mops and brooms. Done in a few hours, then on to the next house. And they’re like the mailman,” the woman giggled. “Neither rain nor sleet nor nor’easter.”
    “Well, the problem with having an army is you don’t know who is really in your house.” Ryan imagined that Botox Queen would have frowned at her friend’s suggestion, if her muscles hadn’t been paralyzed. “A lot of these services are staffed with illegals, so if they steal something, they can just disappear.”
    The other woman waved off her criticism. “They have so many clients. I can’t imagine they have a problem with things going missing. Reputation is everything.”
    Ryan smiled broadly and thanked them before rising from the table. He took his coffee with him. Now that he’d opened the lines of communication, the women might want to chat. He’d enjoy the drink more in the car. Besides, he had work to do.

4
    August 11
    T he lap pool beckoned at the edge of the property, a sapphire sparkling in the darkening sky, set in a square of tarnished grass. Blades crunched beneath my bare feet as I crossed the lawn to my oasis. My escape from my husband.
    I couldn’t argue with him anymore. The alcohol had been talking, not Tom. I’d said as much when he’d tried to outline his ludicrous plan to collect on an insurance policy that we didn’t even have. You’re insane right now. Go sleep it off . My swimming would give him time to stew and then simmer down. Once sober, he’d realize how silly he’d been. He’d apologize.
    My black racing suit hugged my curves as I strode to the pool. Too often, clothing hung from my narrow frame, bypassing the inset of my waist to make me appear as rectangular as a Lego figurine. But the Speedo accentuated my hips. I wondered whether Tom was watching me from the kitchen window. Would he find me sexy? Did sex even cross his
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