The Next Wife by Kaira Rouda (speld decodable readers txt) 📕

born. I push the button for “Today’s Hits.” It’s almost time to leave the past behind. Before I know it, I’m pulling into the driveway, and the garage door opens as if by magic. Technology is really something. Our home is what they call “smart,” which makes me laugh.

I teased John about the system when it had been installed, a five-day project that cost tens of thousands of dollars.

As I watched the crew of tech guys climbing around our home, I said to John, “I picture our house with a big cap and gown, its degree tucked proudly under the copper gutter downspout. So educated.”

That word educated rankles me. People think they’re better than you when they have degrees. The more degrees, the more superior. Most of the people around here pay big bucks to get their kids into the best schools, through the back door with their big donations and named buildings, or sometimes through the side door of cheating and bribes. I didn’t try any door, not that I’d had the option or inclination. I do have my GED. I don’t need anything else. I mean, look where I live.

“Honey, the house isn’t educated, it’s sophisticated. Technology to protect you if I’m out of town, that sort of thing.” John had pulled me into a tight hug. I could tell what he wanted. “I’ll always protect you, babe.”

“Actually, the house will, right?” I’d teased, wriggling away.

“Let’s go upstairs, I’ll show you what’s new.”

Back then, when we’d first married, all he wanted was sex.

It wasn’t his fault. I am pretty irresistible. I push the garage button and watch as the heavy door drops before I step into the house. The alarm warns me to disarm it, and I punch in the numbers.

It’s still beeping. More frantically. My fingers fumble over the digital keypad, retrying the code we’ve had since we married: John’s birthday.

Focus, Tish. I take a deep breath and press 0517*.

The beep stops, and the robot voice says, “Disarmed.”

It’s been a long day. Relief washes over me as I step inside my house. But only for a moment. I realize I expected to see John sitting at the counter. The only things that greet me are my breakfast dishes from this morning, tossed hurriedly in the sink, unrinsed.

Unwanted, my mind flashes to another kitchen sink, this one cracked and stained, rust circling the drain. My momma stands at the sink, her back to me, a pile of dishes stacked on the counter on either side of her. I was seven or eight years old, and I remember standing behind her, watching, wanting to help but not knowing how. On good days, my momma was fun and playful, and I knew she loved me. On bad days, she was the opposite. I didn’t know what today would bring, so my body began to tremble when she turned and spotted me.

“Terry Jane, what the hell are you doing? You scared me.” Momma held a dirty wooden spatula in her hand, and before I knew it, she’d swiped at my bare leg, leaving an angry welt on my thigh. “You’re in my way. Get out of here.”

Shocked by the sudden attack, I froze, my back against the kitchen cabinets. Tears filled my eyes, and the dishes and Momma’s face blurred. When the next swipe of the spatula stung my shoulder, I finally ran from the room. It was a bad day.

I shake my head. Enough of the pity, enough of the past that I’ve left far far behind me. I pick up the phone and call the cleaning lady. She’ll get everything in here all sorted. She loved John. She’ll be happy to help me. Well, maybe. A little argument we had a few weeks ago comes to mind, but I push it away. She’ll come over; she needs the money.

“Hello, Sonja?” I am using my friendliest tone.

“Hi, Mrs. Nelson.” She sighs.

“I need you to come clean the house, please. Like ASAP.”

“No, Mrs. Nelson. Remember, I quit.” Big sigh.

“You didn’t really quit. You just left in a huff. I need you. Now with John gone.” I pause and sniff.

“I am very sorry for your loss.” Sad sigh.

She’s cracking. “I don’t have anyone else to turn to. Please. The funeral is tomorrow, and my home is a disaster.” I run a finger along the kitchen counter. It’s spotless. But I hate dishes in the sink.

“I will come one last time. Tomorrow. OK?” Resigned sigh.

“Perfect. Thanks. I’ll likely be at the funeral. So, can you let yourself in? I’ll mail you a check.”

“I know the code. Leave me cash, Mrs. Nelson. Three hundred dollars.”

Sonja is so demanding. So untrusting, too. “Fine. Make sure the sheets are pressed.”

Nothing on the other end. Silence.

“Sonja?” I sound like I’m yelling. Of course I’m not. “Gracias!”

She hung up on me. She has some kind of nerve.

No one treats me that way and gets away with it.

CHAPTER 23

ASHLYN

I wave goodbye to Jennifer and walk to my car. None of this makes sense. My dad was healthy, happy the last time I saw him. Proud of EventCo, proud of my mom. He didn’t want to go on a trip with Tish. He didn’t want to go anywhere at all with her.

I slip into the car and lock the door. I toss my purse on the passenger’s seat and rummage inside until I find it.

My dad’s phone. I saw it in Tish’s purse as we stood together in that terrible line of sorrow. She doesn’t need his phone anymore. I do. I unlock it and see all his apps, everything he used to run his life. I open Find My Friends and watch as Tish’s dot speeds through her neighborhood and pulls up to her house. She’s home already, likely counting all her money. She thinks she knows everything, thinks she’s in charge of everything when it comes to my dad. But she’s wrong. He and I had our secrets, too.

“Oh, Daddy,” I cry as I hold his phone