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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

It was time. All these years waiting for this one moment. What a fucking anti-climax. She reached a hand up for her wig and tugged. It came away with little trouble and she tossed it onto the coffee table. She ran a hand over her head, lingering on the scars, scratching at a patch of irritated skin. ‘I have some hair at the back of my head’ – she turned to show the fine wisps – ‘but it never grew again over the scars.’

‘The wig is very good. You’d never know.’

‘Yes, I think so too. It can be a bit hot, though. When I’m at home I don’t bother with it.’ Jo was tempted to keep this mundane conversation going. Tell Allison about the hideous wigs she’d had when she was younger. The teasing she’d got from schoolmates. The number of times someone, boys and girls, pulled it off and ran away with it, leaving her crouching down with her arms over her head, tears spilling down her cheeks until someone, usually a teacher, sometimes a guilty classmate, returned it to her. Then, she’d brush dust from the wig, or if it had been tossed into a puddle, she’d dry it with the end of her shirt before pulling it back on. She could have told sad stories for hours. Instead, she ran a finger down the scars on either side of her face.

‘These scars used to be more visible. I had cosmetic surgery years ago to pull them further back so they could be hidden under the wig. It did the trick even if it means I look as if I’ve been trapped in a wind tunnel.’ She wondered if Allison would lie, if she’d say No, they did a great job or if she’d agree her face was a mess. When she did neither, just sat there with that stupefied expression, Jo wanted to reach over and slap her to drag some reaction from her.

‘When I first saw you, years ago, with your creamy, blemish-free, gorgeous skin, I hated you.’

This finally drew a reaction. Allison lifted a hand and smoothed fingers over her bruised cheek. ‘I’ve always been lucky. My mother had beautiful skin; I guess I inherited it from her.’

Jo reached out and grabbed Allison’s hand and, before she could pull it away, dragged it to her cheek. ‘Feel my skin. Do you think I inherited this? Do you think I wasn’t born with beautiful, smooth, silky skin like you?’

‘Stop it!’ Allison wrenched her hand away and got to her feet. ‘Yes, all right, you do look like you got caught in a bloody wind tunnel and’ – she tilted her head towards where the wig sat like a sleeping cat – ‘that doesn’t look remotely like real hair.’