I’ve been the good little housewife. I’ve taken care of every bill, every meal, every holiday, every car repair, every grocery store visit, every gift, every teacher meeting, every doctor and dentist and haircut appointment. I have fucked when I didn’t want to. I have kissed him hello and goodbye and put a smile on my face when I didn’t feel like smiling. I have laughed at every stupid joke. The only thing I haven’t done for Ken is his laundry, and that only because he insists on doing it himself.

Ten.

Fucking.

Years.

I’ve done my best to make the kind of family Ken always said he wanted. I’ve kept this family together, here in this house. I’ve kept my son safe.

How do you lose a house? By getting underwater with the payments. How do you lose a home? Stay in a marriage with someone you no longer love or trust, clinging to memories of what had been, wishing for what might be. How do you lose a husband?

Get him up on a ladder.

CHAPTER
24

“AND HOW MUCH would that premium be?” I scribble the information on the notepad in front of me. The woman on the phone has been very helpful, considering I told her I’m only gathering information and not ready to commit to anything. I was surprised someone even answered the phone at this hour. “And he won’t need any kind of physical or anything like that?”

She assures me that he won’t, based on the information I’ve given her. “He will have to sign for it, of course.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly, even as my pen scratches so deep into the paper it rends a hole. “Does it need to be notarized or anything like that?”

“Nope. We’ll have some proof of identity requirements, but it’s a very easy process. We should be able to get you all set up in no time. You say your husband travels a lot?”

“On business. Yes. And, you know, all that time on the road …”

Her laughter is like the tinkle of wind chimes. “Better safe than sorry, as we say around here. So, can I get that paperwork squared away for you and sent out?”

I look at the numbers I wrote on the paper. I grip my phone tighter. “That would be great. Yes, thank you.”

She has me answer a few more questions. I know the answers to them all. Ken’s social. His birthday. Height, weight, health history. I even know his driver’s license number, because when you’ve been doing everything for someone for almost two decades, you have that sort of stuff memorized. She promises to get me the forms ASAP. And then, she says with another of those wind chime laughs, it’ll just be a few quick signatures and “safe sailing from there on out.”

I had no idea that it would be nearly impossible to take out life insurance without Ken’s knowledge or consent. Crime shows make it seem so easy. I’m not too worried, though. I’ve been forging his signature for years.