Red Widow by Alma Katsu (interesting books to read .txt) 📕

she wore that day at work, Brian hugging her leg. He strikes Lyndsey again as too small to be seven. He’s short and thin, with arms like sticks and those huge eyes. She hopes that he’ll warm up to her—they’ve met once already, for goodness’ sake—but he looks up at her shyly, not smiling, before breaking away from his mother to skitter back into the house.

Lyndsey hands Theresa a bottle of wine, her contribution. The house smells of garlic and oregano. She hangs her purse on a row of hooks by the front door, next to a child’s yellow rain slicker. “Thanks for having me over. I can’t remember when I last had a home-cooked meal, and I’m not exaggerating.”

“It’s going to be simple. Spaghetti and meatballs. Brian’s favorite.”

The inside of the house is more interesting than the outside. There’s obviously been some remodeling done. The back opens into a great room, albeit with a few strategically placed columns so that the overall effect is of a cozy den. Two overstuffed couches with well-worn red slipcovers are flanked on one side by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Bins of toys, mostly action figures and Legos, are lined up in the corner. Across the back of the room is a wall of mullioned windows looking onto a dense wood. It reminds Lyndsey a little of her dream house, the one she thought she’d own once she married.

While Theresa finishes cooking—steam rising from the sink as she drains pasta, the rattle of china and cutlery—Lyndsey makes a slow lap of the family room. She tries to engage Brian, who sits on one of the sofas watching television, but he studiously ignores her, curled up around himself like a true introvert, a pillow in his lap like a shield.

“Can I look around the house? It’s so lovely . . .” Lyndsey calls over her shoulder.

“Sure,” Theresa replies from the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

So, Lyndsey takes a little tour of the house. Glancing through open doorways, peeking into closets. What is she looking for? She’s not sure . . . Signs that things have changed or that she’s preparing for something, perhaps . . . Stockpiling, packing. Suitcases dragged out of storage, boxes marked for Goodwill. And the house does seem a bit at ends, like Theresa has been clearing things out of storage, but couldn’t that be innocent, signs of a widow getting on with her life?

She pauses at an arrangement of framed photos in the hallway. So many pictures of Richard. It is indeed the man she remembers from her first years at the Agency. The same serious, intelligent expression. He wears glasses with small lenses, well proportioned for his face, and his brown hair is on the shaggy side and starting to gray. He could be a professor, or an accountant, but not a case officer. Not an action hero. No James Bond. Proof that still waters run deep.

Most are family photos, however. The three of them on a mountain top—family trip to Old Rag? Richard and Brian mugging together in front of the red Jaguar. Richard in an overcoat, the wind teasing hair over his eyes. Theresa and Richard in festive clothes, sitting in a pew—taken at someone’s wedding? They look so happy together, so made for each other. She looks at the constellation of photos, meant to reassure somebody. She once would’ve assumed it’s for Brian’s benefit but now she knows better. It is a sign of Theresa’s devotion.

She tiptoes upstairs. The first room she comes to is obviously Brian’s: a single bed dressed in flannel sheets decorated with rocket ships, stars, and moons. A huge globe and a row of plastic dinosaurs sit on a shelf, posters of national parks on the walls. The second room is the master bedroom, so austere in grays and cream that it is a cipher. A tall mirror on a wooden easel stands in the corner, turned to an angle, reflecting nothing.

The door is ajar to the third room—the last room. Lyndsey stands back in the hall, straining to see in. The room looks unused, simple blinds on the windows, a bare bulb in the ceiling fixture. Cardboard boxes sit haphazardly in the middle of the floor. Lyndsey tiptoes in and peers into one of the boxes.

Clothing. Men’s clothing. They have to be Richard’s. At first, the sight makes Lyndsey sad. The Widow is packing up her husband’s clothes, finally ready to get on with her life. But then, she thinks: if she’s packing them up to give away, why now? Can there be another reason?

She touches the top item in the box. Is there a tag on that sweater? Could it be new?

She’s about to pick it up when a voice rises from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready,” Theresa calls. Feeling unfinished, Lyndsey heads back downstairs.

They start with salad and a plate of kid-friendly carrot sticks and grape tomatoes for Brian. Theresa draws her son out so that by the time they progress to the main course, he is talking to Lyndsey, telling her about his favorite subjects at school and what his day was like.

There are furtive glances in her direction as he toys with his noodles. Lyndsey can’t help but want to ask him if his mother has been acting strangely. “So, Brian,” she says as casually as possible. “What’s new? Is there anything coming up that you’re looking forward to?”

Theresa glances in her direction. Does she think that’s a strange question? There is the slightest flash of something on her face, but she keeps eating. A nibble of pasta, a sip of wine.

Brian tilts his head like a bird. After consideration, he says, “We have a class trip coming up. We’re going to look at moon rocks.”

Is Theresa’s faint smile one of triumph? Has she coached her son not to give away any secrets? “At the National Air and Space Museum. I’m going to be one of the chaperones.”

Lyndsey puts on a smile. “That sounds like fun.”

The conversation moves on to other topics, whether to enroll Brian in Cub Scouts or a