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Back The Dead Husband Save as PDF
Contents ( 85)
  3. Contents
  4. Part I
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Part II
  35. Thirty
  36. Thirty-One
  37. Thirty-Two
  38. Thirty-Three
  39. Thirty-Four
  40. Thirty-Five
  41. Thirty-Six
  42. Thirty-Seven
  43. Thirty-Eight
  44. Thirty-Nine
  45. Forty
  46. Forty-One
  47. Forty-Two
  48. Forty-Three
  49. Part III
  50. Forty-Four
  51. Forty-Five
  52. Forty-Six
  53. Forty-Seven
  54. Forty-Eight
  55. Forty-Nine
  56. Fifty
  57. Fifty-One
  58. Fifty-Two
  59. Fifty-Three
  60. Fifty-Four
  61. Fifty-Five
  62. Fifty-Six
  63. Fifty-Seven
  64. Fifty-Eight
  65. Fifty-Nine
  66. Sixty
  67. Sixty-One
  68. Sixty-Two
  69. Sixty-Three
  70. Sixty-Four
  71. Sixty-Five
  72. Sixty-Six
  73. Sixty-Seven
  74. Sixty-Eight
  75. Sixty-Nine
  76. Seventy
  77. Seventy-One
  78. Seventy-Two
  79. One
  80. Two
  81. Reading Group Guide
  82. A Conversation with the Author
  83. Acknowledgments
  84. About the Author

My pulse pounds like I’m running away, but I’m not. I just want to get away from this house. I’ll go pick up Max, and then we’ll start the long drive to Milwaukee. What happens from there? The only certainty I have is I’ll finally be done running away.

I back out over the soft padding of snow in the driveway and into the street.

One last look at 1734 Rum Hill Road. The place I grew up too fast.

Good riddance.

I shift into drive and lurch forward, and as I roll along the blanketed street, I don’t even look in the mirror.

The driving is slow; the quiet residential streets haven’t yet been plowed. All the rooftops breathe steam into the freezing morning air. I want to push the pedal down, race as fast as I can to Max, but I’ll do my son little good if I kill myself trying to reach him.

I make it to Alec’s house in one piece, park in the street next to the patch of grass where three months ago I tripped and fell in front of him. The grass is now dormant, covered in snow, and the tree Alec was pruning that day has only a few remaining leaves, holdouts that will lose their grips before too long.

I ring the bell, my stomach doing flips.

Alec opens the door, flannel pants and a baby-blue V-neck T-shirt, the picture of softness and warmth. We all live our own inner turmoil, but if Alec has any, I cannot see it, not now, not here. I see a man who has a snow day, just like his boy. I picture them playing board games by the fire after downing a stack of pancakes and, when they get the energy, donning layers to venture out and make a snow fort. I see a man who’s my friend and maybe could have been my lover. I see a human being with whom I could share the truth.

For once, I just want to tell the truth.

But I won’t, not now, not yet, so I don’t, and the weight of that must show on my face, for he looks at me with questioning eyes and asks if I’m okay.

No, I tell him. I’m not. Not now, not yet.

I walk inside, making no small talk because the idea of wasted words is unbearable in the moment. If I can’t confide in him, I at least won’t diminish whatever relationship we have with idle chatter. He lets the silence last, and I’m awash with a belief that this is a man with whom I could have shared a forever love.

The beauty and the sadness of it all.

Max races from the living room and hugs me.

“I called last night,” he says. “You didn’t answer.”

Because Cora shattered my phone before I shattered her. Another torch of bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I was scared.”