BooksBarbecue
Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

She sat back with the last of the wine, her head pleasantly buzzing. Allison can’t have gone far. Until Peter’s estate was settled, she wouldn’t have access to his money and although she no doubt had a good salary, it wouldn’t be enough to keep her in the style she so enjoyed.

Jo knew she’d no friends, apart from that woman, Portia. Was that where Allison had gone? To pour out her woes. Tell her friend some nasty woman was trying to steal her inheritance. She couldn’t, could she, because she’d have to confess to why, and she wasn’t going to do that.

Allison would come home eventually. She had to. Perhaps when she did, Jo would tell her the real reason she’d been following her for so long.

She pulled off the wig, threw it across the room and let her fingers trace the lines of scars that decorated her skull. Yes, it was time.

53

Allison tried to convince herself she’d imagined what Portia had said or she’d simply misheard. Her friend couldn’t possibly have said Stuart would be happy if you came naked, could she? It was inappropriate, seriously creepy, and wrong.

When the taxi pulled up outside Portia’s house, Allison wanted to stay in the taxi and say she’d changed her mind, that she wasn’t up to lunch, to ask, even beg, the driver to take her home. Portia had seemed such a comfort after Jo’s visit; now, Allison wasn’t too sure.

Portia climbed out and turned to look in at her. ‘Come on, darling, I’ve a nice bottle of your favourite Prosecco chilling in the fridge.’

Perhaps it was the mantle of grieving widow she’d taken on with such enthusiasm making Allison feel weak, biddable, because she swallowed the lump of intuition that was stuck in her throat and climbed from the car, almost crying out as the taxi took off, feeling instantly abandoned.

Portia put an arm around her shoulders and led her on, chattering about something, the words going over Allison’s head. It was stress, the understandable result of a seriously fucked-up day. Nothing more than that. She was being foolish to worry. These were good people. Allison had simply misheard.

Inside, Portia took the bright pink jacket and hung it on the ornate coat stand that stood in the corner of the large entrance hallway. ‘Now, let’s get you comfy, and I’ll get that Prosecco.’

Her concern and her low, murmured words were calming, soothing. Allison allowed herself to be guided into the lounge and pressed into the corner of the sofa, feeling cosseted when a cushion was placed behind her head. She’d no idea what she was going to do about Jo. Right at that moment, basking in her friend’s support, she didn’t care.