The Widower's Wife: A Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

mind anymore, or was he too despondent from his job loss?
    Prickly grass gave way to smooth stone. I dipped my toes into the water. It was cool, not cold. Still, shivers ran down my back as I lowered myself into the pool. I submerged my face, an ostrich burying its head in the sand. I screamed.
    Yelling is silent underwater. I could wail until my face turned blue and all anyone would see was a tiny disturbance on the surface when, beneath, a furious sea fizzed around my eyes andnose. How could Tom just fall apart like this? I understood that for type-A men, losing a job was akin to the death of a loved one. I’d expected the anger and despair, even the drinking. But irrational fantasies?
    Lack of air squeezed my temples. I tossed back my head and gasped. I felt sick. Screaming wasn’t good enough. I needed to swim.
    I grabbed the silicone cap that I always left to dry at the edge of the pool and tucked my hair inside. I pulled the goggles from my scalp onto the bridge of my nose. Ready, I scrunched like a spring against the cement wall. My thighs shot forward. My right arm extended straight, fingers flat. I pulled my hand in. Pounds of water pushed behind me.
    I owed Tom for this release. If not for fear of losing my fiancé to baby bulge, I would never have dragged myself to the YMCA in the first place. I wouldn’t have started swim classes and learned to shed tension in the water.
    The lane line beneath me turned into a T. The wall loomed within a stroke’s length. I folded at the waist. My legs flipped over my head. My feet hit tile. I propelled forward, kicking the water into froth. Swimming, rather than sniping, drained my anger. Tom needed an outlet other than drinking.
    Without warning, my right leg seized. Lights exploded in my vision as my calf contracted with labor-like pain. I thrashed in the water, trying to rub out the cramp while floating. Too much lactic acid. Not enough water. Tom’s fault. Had he not gotten me so upset, I wouldn’t have wasted precious hydration on tears.
    I drilled my thumbs into the spastic muscle. After an excruciating minute, the pain subsided. Aftershocks ran through the leg. I pulled myself up onto land and extended the injured limb above the water.
    A minute later, I limped to the gate. Tom leaned on the other side of the iron finials. A frown, highlighted by the lights beneath the shimmering water, drew down his face. “You okay?”
    “Yeah. Charley horse. How long have you been there?”
    Tom shrugged. “I brought you a towel.” He tossed the white, fluffy fabric over the fence. It waved like a flag of surrender in the air.
    I caught it. “Thanks. I forgot to bring one down.”
    “Are you coming to bed?”
    “Right after I rinse off.”
    The night air no longer felt warm as I rubbed the towel over my extremities. I pulled off my cap and shook out my hair, trying to look like a swimsuit model, trying to make my husband want me.
    Tom’s eyes glazed. He watched something in his mind, a scene from the past or hope for the future.
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “You’re not going to tell anyone about what we discussed?”
    Our ridiculous dinner conversation hardly qualified as a discussion. “No. Of course not.”
    “Good.” Tom turned toward the house. “You coming?”
    “I’ll follow you up right after I shower.”
    “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
    “I love you.”
    My words trailed him as he marched back to the house, stamping a path into the brittle remains of our once lush lawn. He didn’t seem to hear me. He didn’t look back.

5
    November 17
    T he phone rang in Ryan’s ear, a mechanical tone that had twice before ended with a machine. The woman sitting perpendicular from him at a broad mahogany desk cast a scolding glance over her shoulder. She clearly didn’t think it appropriate for visitors to Derivative Capital to chat on their cells while waiting for her boss.
    There was little cause for concern. He knew Robomaids wouldn’t answer his calls.