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

the office, per John’s request. I’d touched up my makeup and was picking leaves off the dying plant on my desk when the door to his office opened.

“Hey, Tish. Thanks for staying,” he’d said, walking over to me.

I peered up at him through my thick eyelashes. “My pleasure.”

Up to this point, he hadn’t been too overt about anything. Sure, he never suggested a friend of his for me to date, but still, if he was looking, he could have any woman in town.

“I do need to send my mom a photo of me and my boss. She doesn’t actually believe I have a job.” That was a lie, but it worked. I would never send my momma anything.

“That’s so cute,” he murmured.

John leaned toward me, and I fought the urge to make the first move. All I had to do was lean up a little and kiss him, but I didn’t. He had to make the first move. So, I pulled out my phone, held it out in front of us, and said as I took the photo, “Let’s see that perfect smile.”

I’m dizzy now, just thinking about it. There’s nothing like that first kiss.

Oh, John. Why did you have to betray me? So frustrating. I stomp through the kitchen and notice the floodlights illuminate the backyard. A chill rolls down my spine. The lights only activate if they sense motion.

I hurry to the keypad and set the alarm. I know I’m being silly, a “scaredy-cat” as my momma would say, but I feel better now that I know no one can get in. Uncle George told me a lot of rich folks get robbed during weddings and funerals, and I for one am not going to lose any of this to anyone.

Outside, the floodlights have gone out. I take a deep breath, pour a glass of cabernet to take upstairs to my room. For some reason the heater has turned on, and it’s pumping out hot air. I’m almost at the top of our grand staircase when the speakers hidden in every room of the house begin blasting some horrible heavy metal song. The wineglass crashes from my hand and red liquid flies everywhere, making splatters on the carpet and walls like a crime scene. I’m shaking as I try to remember how to turn it off, make it stop.

I pull my phone from my pocket and try to remember which app controls the music. The sound is piercing, so loud I’m sure my neighbors hear it, wondering who is throwing a party. Oh my god. I’m losing it.

Damn it. John loves all this smart home shit. I never paid attention to how to work any of it. Frustrated tears run down my cheeks, and I’m about to throw my phone down the stairs when I see the Sonos app.

I click on it, type in our usual password. “Your password has been updated. Please type the correct password.” Fuck.

Now I do throw my phone down the stairs. The music gets even louder.

Just then there’s a pounding at the door. “It’s security, ma’am. Open the door.” Damn it. The community’s security guard has been summoned. I don’t know how much he makes, but who would want his job? Hassling housewives and fining teenagers for driving their parents’ cars too fast. Worthless sense of security, if you ask me.

I hurry and yank open the door, setting off the security alarm. Sirens blare all around us as the house is illuminated inside and out. My head is about to explode. Red wine is all over my yoga pants.

“Ma’am, calm down. Are you all right?” The community guard is looking at me like I’m certifiable.

“I can’t get the music off. My husband controlled all of it on his phone. It just turned on. It won’t stop,” I cover my ears with my hands. I’m in a panic. I can’t think. I need the music to stop.

The guard is in my face. “The alarm. You need to shut it off or you’ll have all kinds of first responders here.”

My phone rings. It’s the security company. Oh my god.

“Mrs. Nelson. Are you safe?”

“Yes. I set the alarm off by accident. Please make it stop.”

“What is your safe word?”

“Ashlyn.” Ironic. His daughter is the safe word. If there is trouble, the panic word is “Kate.” He thought that was funny, at the time.

“We’ve notified the authorities this is a false alarm. Thank you, Mrs. Nelson. Have a great night.”

The sirens have stopped, and the lights return to normal nighttime setting, but the music is still blasting. “I don’t know the password. John must have changed it.”

“Can you call him? Get him to tell you the new one.” He’s yelling, and he looks at me like I’m an idiot.

“He’s dead,” I yell.

Just then the music stops. Thank goodness.

“Praise the Lord,” the guard says simply while shaking his head. “You gonna be OK?”

“Yes, thank you.” I close the front door. I turn to the stairs and note the wine mess everywhere. Sonja will be here tomorrow.

She can deal with it.

I’m beginning to hate my life about now, and that’s not good for anybody. Just ask John.

CHAPTER 27

KATE

It’s one habit I cannot break. Every morning I roll to my right, and I’m stunned when I feel the cold sheets and realize John’s side of the bed is empty. I have to remind myself John is gone. It’s funny how much muscle memory guides us. I know, intellectually, he’ll never be coming back. Ever. Yet I reach for him.

I don’t want to imagine John as a pile of ash. But I can’t help it. I do. I know he didn’t feel anything, especially not the fire. I want to know if he felt the pain of a heart attack—the official cause of death according to the death certificate—but no one knows. Tish told us she was asleep upstairs. That she left John asleep on the couch downstairs, passed out because he drank too much. Poor John.

I make my