The Widow by Ivan Jenson

Author:Ivan Jenson [Ivan Jenson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dark Edge Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SCOTT

Sylvia comes back from her New York City visit today. I have the keys to her house as I have been watching her dog. And I have decided to tidy up a little. As I am mopping her kitchen, for the first time, I convince myself – though the flooring has been replaced – that I can see the bloodstains from her late husband. Nevertheless, sometimes I can feel the presence of her husband. She really shouldn’t have remained living in this house. She really should sell it and move to another part of town. But then again, the property is tainted. People talk. And I imagine it would be almost impossible to sell a home where a fatal shooting has taken place.

I have done some innocent snooping around. She certainly doesn’t keep a diary. I am just wondering if she shows interest in others as I did at the ER. But I attribute that mostly to the analgesic drip. From what I already know about Sylvia, she leads a fairly organized and impressively clean life. Yet there is something static about this place. I see numerous framed pictures in her bedroom of her deceased mother. There are photos of her mother in her youth. Anne was a striking woman in her time. Mother and daughter share many features – the full lips, and the thin, mostly penciled-in eyebrows. Her mother was also a brunette with a sultry figure, with that infectious smile. I lean into one of the photos of her mother. So close that for a moment I feel like I can feel the very breath of her exhalation. I am startled by this sensation and I step back. Her mother’s eyes seem to look at me from within the frame. Like she is watching to make sure I take good care of her daughter. I have never been a believer in ghosts but if any house has ever felt haunted this one certainly does.

There are no photos of Sylvia’s husband, Will. I fully understand why. All those photos – that is if she has not deleted them – would most likely be on her phone.

Her mother was of another time.

It feels like all of the faces in the photographs are staring at me. Watching me. If I didn’t think it would be totally out of line, I would take all the photos and stash them in the recesses of a dark, musty closet.

Though I’ve no doubt Sylvia would kill me if I did such a thing.

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