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

sympathetic. I need to be sad, too. “I’m glad you can get to his photos.” I pretend to dab under my eyes as I wonder if he took any photos that last day in Telluride. Or that last night? I need to check. But I don’t know how.

“How do I get to those photos? I’d love to print out some of the best ones of us and frame them.” I am lying, but it sounds good.

Her eyes dart around the kitchen, no doubt noticing there isn’t a single photo in here. None in the other rooms, either. I never took time to print out any of the two of us, although the funeral home did a good job of framing a few for the service. Never really thought it was that important—and I still don’t. But I do wonder if there are any photos from that weekend.

“You go onto iCloud. If he shared his albums with you, you can find them there. I have to go, but um, Tish?” Ashlyn wipes away a tear.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything you want to tell me about my dad’s death?” She takes a shaky breath. “I’m just trying to understand how it could happen. I know you two weren’t getting along. He was going to dump you the night he died.”

“This again? You’re being ridiculous. And I don’t appreciate it. We were enjoying a romantic getaway when his heart attack happened. Sudden cardiac arrest. End of story. Period. Got it?” Ashlyn is on my last nerve.

She sighs. “He was under so much stress, and yet you took him to the mountains, a place where he never felt well.” She shakes her head. “It’s just odd.”

I hate bitchy girls. “We were getting along perfectly fine. He was under a lot of stress, that’s true, but he loved me more than anything or anyone. Including you.”

“You know he sent texts to people that night. Photos, too.” She pulls open the trash bin and spits her gum into it.

“Your dad loved to text.” I smile at her. It’s fake.

“I’m just going to take all the things I care about from my room. I’m moving out. I won’t be coming back here ever again,” she says.

“Good. Good riddance. You can leave your key by the front door.” This chitchat makes me realize I need to find John’s phone and look at his photos. Read through all of his texts.

“No way. This is my house,” she says, which is odd because it’s clearly mine.

“What do you mean this is your house?” I ask.

“Oh, you’ll see. Anyway, will you do me a favor?” Ashlyn turns serious.

“Sure, anything for you.” I lie. The little brat thinks everything is hers. Nothing is.

“Leave my mom alone. Leave the company alone. Leave me alone. Just go away.”

I want to tell her it’s the reverse. That her mommy should leave me alone, just accept the new world order. They all should. But instead, I say, “Why don’t you grab your stuff and get on your way? Now.”

“Sure,” she says and hurries down the hall. A couple of minutes later, she’s carrying a corkboard pinned with photos, concert tickets, memorabilia from a perfect high school life. The spoiled brat doesn’t have any idea how good she has it. She should make sure she has everything she wants from this house, my house. I’ll destroy anything she leaves here.

Ashlyn heads toward the front door and I follow behind, fuming. Here’s the thing—the line between love and hate is so thin. So very precarious. I loved her. I thought we would be a family, the three of us. Silly dreams, Tish. I shake my head.

She stops and turns around. “It’s so hot in here. I don’t know how you deal.”

“I can’t control it. I don’t know where your dad’s phone is. I know there are apps on it. I’m not stupid.” I am, however, yelling. I take a deep breath. That outburst made me sound like an idiot.

“Well, then, I guess you aren’t dealing.” Ashlyn laughs as she walks out the door.

It takes every part of me not to slam the door after her. I march into the kitchen and make a call to Uncle George.

“Hello, sugar pie.” George answers after only one ring. “I took care of the little princess’s car for you.”

“I know, thank you. She’s bruised, her arm’s hurt, but otherwise, she’s fine. I like the warning,” I say. “She still had the nerve to come over here tonight.”

“Gutsy. What did she want?” George asks.

“She said she wanted her stuff from her room, but I think she also was snooping. There wasn’t anything for her to find. Did you deal with my momma?”

“Yes, she understands if she talks to anyone up there again, it won’t turn out well for her. She does want to talk to you,” George says.

“Never.” I shake my head. “I can’t find John’s phone.”

“I don’t know why you need his phone when you have a perfectly good one of your own.” George chuckles. “Getting greedy again are we, Tish?”

“I am not greedy. I’m worried he might have texted people the night he died, I have no idea what photos he sent or to who.”

“If there was anything, you’d know by now. The wife and the daughter, they would have come after you. But they didn’t. You’re all good, but actually you’re all bad.” Now he’s laughing, a big-belly annoying sound. I think he just snorted.

“Stop it. This isn’t funny. I need to get to the photos on there. They could be incriminating.”

George pulls himself together. “Listen, sugar. Forget about his phone. They can’t touch you or they would have made a move already. You have everything you need, and then some. Call a tech company, and they’ll come sort your house out. You sound frantic. What are you afraid of?”

I’m afraid of being poor again. I’m afraid of being discovered as a fraud. I’m afraid I’m not good enough, just like my momma always said.

“Nothing. You’re right. Ashlyn says my house belongs