The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

them for long. Neither did I. And Daddy was there the whole time, putting an end to things before we said anything stupid.”

“God, stop calling him Daddy,” I say. “You never call him that.”

She moves closer. Slow, like a statue animating. “You never appreciated him like I do. You never saw all he did for us.” Another step.

“Stay back,” I say.

“Why? What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Just stay back.”

Cora brings the knife in front of her, takes one more stride forward, and stops. She’s now ensconced in shadows, as all boogeymen are.

“I’m not like him,” she says. “Not as loyal. I’ll do whatever I need to, to whomever I need to, in order to make sure secrets remain secrets. Even if that means family.”

I take three steps back, sliding the phone back in my pocket, wanting both hands free. My car is unlocked, and I’m guessing I’m faster than Cora. But would I have enough time to pop the trunk and search for the tire iron before she attacks?

I decide the best move, if it comes to it, is to just get to the car, get inside, lock the doors, and get the hell out of here. Out of the park. Out of my father’s home.

Out of Bury.

“Don’t be so skittish, Rose. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You have a knife,” I say.

“This isn’t for you. I’m leaving this here, out on the trail, somewhere in a safe hiding space. Safe, like Caleb. This is the knife you don’t want found.”

“That’s what you used to kill the dog?” I ask.

“I’m just saying you don’t want this knife turning up with the police. Nor do you want the police talking to me, because I have a very distinct memory of that night that’s probably very different from yours. I can be pretty convincing, you know. And when they realize what you were capable of when you were only fifteen, they’ll easily believe you killed your husband, too. It all fits together.”

I’m horrified by how right she is, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of showing it.

“You’re the one who wrote about these very coincidental things in your books,” she continues. “And you and I know the scene about the boy is true, so why wouldn’t the wife-killing-husband scene also be true?” Cora tilts her head to one side. “That’s your weakness, Rose. Your ego. You just had to write about the past, didn’t you? You had to brag about it.”

“Brag? Do you know how many nights I wake up in horror because I dream about what happened?” My voice is far from a whisper now. “I wrote that to help release it from my brain. I’m not like you, Cora. I live in constant shame and guilt over that night.”

“Well, then, I’m surprised in the last twenty years you never went to the police.”

“There’s still time for that.”

She walks up to me but I hold my ground. The simmering fear I’ve had all night suddenly vanishes, replaced by a desire to inflict pain. This is what soldiers must feel at the brink of a battle, the moment they finally push forward through fear and into the fray. Violent destiny.

“I don’t think so, Rose. You’re more like me than you care to admit. We’re sisters, after all. Raised in the same environment together. Same stimuli.”

I swallow, then ask the question I’m not sure I want an answer to.

“Did he touch you? When we were kids, did he touch you?”

Her face is stone cold, and I notice for the first time it’s stopped snowing. For a moment, everything is still and silent, a funeral home at midnight.

“We grew up in the same house,” she says. “You tell me.”

“I…I never saw.” I try to think of my childhood, of any time I felt there might have been something off at home. Amiss. “He never did anything to me,” I tell her.

“So why would you think that about me?”

“Because I’m trying to understand what it was that made you…” I glance down at the knife in her hand, the tip pointing to the ground. “What you are.”

She leans in and I can smell her. Smelling like adolescence.

“A dog is just a dog,” she whispers. “No one asks why it tears the rabbit apart.”

With that, she turns and starts walking away, down the parking lot and toward a trail covered in a thin layer of snow. After she disappears into the night, a glow emanates and I realize it’s the flashlight on her phone. She navigates the trail into the distance, disappearing into the trees, her light distant and intermittent. Firefly.

I head back to my car, where inside I find an ounce of warmth. I leave my sister to the dark, absorbed by the cold, the wet. Leave her to this place of bones.

Perhaps it’s the one place she finds peace.

Forty-Three

Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin

November 12

Colin drove home later than usual, already two hours past sunset. He navigated the streets of Whitefish Bay, guessing he had two minutes left before he was in his house. Three until he was on his couch, beer in hand, fire turned on. It was his night to cook, but he wanted to sit for a little while. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Sit and do nothing. Allow his brain to slow down.

But he wasn’t home yet, so on the drive from downtown, he’d allowed himself a few thoughts about Rose Yates. He considered her the way someone would a brain teaser they couldn’t solve. A little bit every day, hoping the answer would suddenly reveal itself. He had no solution for Rose Yates. He had theories but no answer, and theories didn’t do him a lot of good.

On the drive, he also pondered the Yates family in totality, which led to him thinking about family in general. How there are some good families in the world, some bad ones, but mostly all those in between, the mixtures, the good kids and the black sheep. Which one was Rose?