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

feet, no socks. It’s something you’d throw on to run down to the drugstore for cigarettes and lottery tickets.

He pushes his way inside. “I want to have a word with you,” he says a little too loudly. The smell of alcohol is strong on his breath.

In two steps, he sees Theresa on the couch. His face falls. “I came because I thought you’d be alone. But I see you two couldn’t wait to celebrate my downfall. You’ve got champagne and everything.”

Lyndsey wasn’t worried when she first saw him at the door. He was obviously in a bad way. She actually felt sorry for him. Now that he’s pushed his way into the house and is obviously drunk, reeking of self-pity, and a little out of control, it’s a different story. Pfeifer’s warning comes back to her. Just one day ago, Eric suffered the worst indignities of his life. He was taken to FBI headquarters. He was fired from his job. He is under investigation. He probably gave the slip to a surveillance team to make it here.

She touches his shoulder, meaning to steer him back to the door. “Eric, you shouldn’t be here. And you’re drunk.”

He shakes her hand off violently. “So, now I’m not welcome. You were pretty friendly when I invited you to run the investigation. You were only too happy for my help then. For me to make that bad thing you did in Lebanon go away—”

“‘Bad thing’? There’s no comparison between what I did in Lebanon and what you’ve done.”

“Your friend has questionable judgment, did you know that?” he says over his shoulder to Theresa. His tone is mocking and gleeful. If he’s going down, he’s going to take everyone with him. “Do you know why she was recalled from Beirut? She was caught sleeping with a foreign intelligence officer. She’s either self-destructive or incredibly stupid, you decide.”

“What I did is none of your business.” Lyndsey knows he’s trying to make her lose her temper, but that doesn’t make it any easier to keep from getting angry. She never guessed Eric could be like this. He hid his ugly side so well.

Theresa is on her feet, cell phone out. “Eric, you shouldn’t be here. I bet you were told not to contact either of us. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police. Do you understand?”

As he spins on Theresa, his face softens. His anger evaporates. “It’s your fault, you know. If you hadn’t—If we . . .” He stops, catching the words in mid-flight. “Things could have been different. In another world, we could’ve been happy and none of this would’ve happened.”

Strangely, Theresa doesn’t snap back at him. She doesn’t speak. She drops her head, avoiding his eyes.

What is going on here? Lyndsey is confused but she doesn’t say a word. The air prickles like an electrical storm has just passed by.

Eric stuffs his hands in the pockets of his raincoat and shuffles his feet. “I just wanted you to know—it’s your fault. Both of you,” he says, turning back to Lyndsey like she’s an afterthought now. “You remember that, when they ask. You’ll have only yourselves to blame.” And then he pushes past her again, only this time she has no desire to stop him. He leaves the door wide open to the night.

Stunned, Lyndsey stands at the open door. Theresa walks up beside her. “What was that about?” They both look at the spot where Eric had last stood. There is a weight to the emptiness. That moment with Eric is dissolving by the second. It is hard to say what they saw, let alone believe what it might mean.

Lyndsey turns from the door, reaching for her cell phone. “It almost sounds like—I don’t know—like he’s going to do something drastic.”

“Do you think he might try to kill himself?” Theresa asks, dubious.

It would be easy to say, He’s just drunk. He’s upset. It will pass. That they heard wrong. They misunderstood. To avoid the embarrassment of Eric being found in two hours waiting to board a plane for Minnesota to visit his family and lick his wounds.

But that’s not what’s happening. There was another kind of threat in Eric Newman’s demeanor. Lyndsey calls the Watch and gets the same officer who called her in the night Yaromir Popov died. Sergeant Mitchell.

“You’re right, ma’am. It sounds like he evaded the surveillance team. We’ll alert them right away. It’s doubtful that Mr. Newman will try to contact you again tonight, but if he returns to your apartment, try to detain him.”

The two women return to the couch, rattled. Theresa is already getting her things together, readying to go. But there is one thing bothering Lyndsey. She heard what Eric said and this moment, right now, might be her only chance for an explanation. In an hour, a day, the moment will be lost. Deniable. It must’ve been important for Eric to say it to her, under the circumstances. Lyndsey wants to know. “What was that he said to you? That the two of you could’ve been happy?”

The sigh that comes from Theresa is long and low and pained. She turns away, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s nothing. A long time ago, before Richard. But it was nothing.”

Suddenly, Lyndsey understands. Eric had been in love with Theresa all this time. Maybe it was the reason he’d kept the secret of Richard’s survival from Theresa two years ago. Maybe he’d hoped things would be different this time. “It was something to Eric, apparently.”

Theresa turns her head. Her hair sweeps over her eyes, and she reaches up to brush it away. Even this tiny gesture is elegant and perfect, and she can see why Eric would fall in love with her. “He should’ve known better. And he was never in love with me. He was in love with what Richard and I had. With what Richard had. Respect, love. I might’ve been young and inexperienced, but I could see that he didn’t want me—he wanted to be