The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson

Author:Carter Wilson [Wilson, Carter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2021-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Seven

An intricate fall wreath adorns the door of my sister’s house. Woven branches festooned with fiery-red and muted-yellow leaves, and it’s even large enough to accommodate four miniature pumpkins. Cora loves to decorate for holidays, if for nothing other than to showcase on social media. This is one of her Thanksgiving decorations, and many more are inside. Artificial cheer.

I knock, and when no one hears me, I walk in.

I had a sitter lined up who canceled at the last moment, so I asked Cora if Max could hang out with Willow for a few hours. I almost canceled plans with Alec rather than rely on Cora but then figured it would be good to make another attempt, a soft approach at establishing some kind of normal family relations.

Though I’m still not sure that’s even what I want.

I call out at half volume.

“Hello?”

No answer. There’s something alluring about them not knowing I’m here, as if I might see Cora and her family in their natural habitat and not hidden behind plastic smiles and ceramic cornucopias. I walk into the empty kitchen. The book Max brought over is on the counter, a two-hundred pager I’d never heard of before but is a collection of short nonfiction stories about famous criminals. Al Capone, John Dillinger, Lee Harvey Oswald, and the like. It’s written for a young audience, and he told me he wanted to know more about criminal cases since I was a mystery writer, so I allowed it.

I stop and listen, hearing some faint noises upstairs. I head up without announcing myself, lightly grasping the cold and black stair railing. At the top, I hear the noise again, and it sounds like someone talking. Maybe it’s Cora and Peter, or just a television, but in this moment, all I can think of is that scene twenty-two years ago when Caleb Benner burst from Cora’s room, bloodied and desperate, stumbling down the hallway toward me.

The master bedroom door at the end of this hallway is closed. I take a few more steps and pass Willow’s bedroom on the right. Her door is open, light on. No one’s inside, and the room is a maelstrom of dirty clothes, rumpled sheets and blankets, makeup supplies, and schoolwork papers. Curiously, her walls are nearly bare—just two mirrors and a poster. The poster catches my eye because it looks so out of place in a teenage girl’s room. I step inside to get a better look.

I’m utterly chilled as the image comes into better focus. It’s a line drawing, quite well done, of a woman sitting at the bottom of a staircase. Her face is severe, her expression a controlled rage, ink-black hair pulled tightly back into a bun. She’s wearing a black, puritanical dress buttoned to the neck, white collar circling her neck. I think Hester Prynne, but I know that’s not right. I know because Hester Prynne wasn’t known for clutching a hatchet in her hands, which this woman is doing. There’s a single word in bold type at the bottom of the poster: Lizzie.

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