The Sister-in-Law: An absolutely gripping summer thriller for 2021, Pamela Crane [reading eggs books .txt] 📗

profound edition of my husband I had never met, because it was better than the lying, cheating one I had spent the last year living with. I hated how I had always loved him, no matter how deep he cut me. Love was the ultimate dichotomy – it tore the heart apart. I’d take the pain of heartbreak over no pain at all.

I felt his haunting words, and I wondered what his last moments were like as he wrote them. I guess when a guy like Ben ponders death, something else takes over. Something deeper and darker, something that uses words like vanquish and cruelty of life.

What you did. His message flooded me with guilt and regret. The blame was clearly on me. I did this to him. I nudged him to the edge, then shoved him off of it. If only he had known the truth … but would that have changed anything? Or would knowing only have pushed his goodbye sooner? It was a question I’d never know the answer to. A question I could never ask him.

The letter slipped from my hand to the granite as I swiped away a trickle of snot. I felt myself slipping. I needed help. Should I still call 9-1-1? What then, after the police showed up? What if they asked questions?

Where were you when he died? What were you doing when he died? What does this letter mean? What secrets is Ben referring to here?

No, the risk was too great. My brain was too cloudy to make a thoughtful decision. I was drowning in deep water. There was only one person I trusted in chaos like this, one person who could help me. The same person who helped me the last time I faced Death.

Lane Flynn. My brother, my best friend, my savior. That’s what a brother was for – to help his sister when she locked herself out of her car, or forgot to pick up the kids from school, or when her husband turned up dead. Lane would know what to do.

I couldn’t find my purse on the counter where I usually dropped it – along with a stack of mail or my grocery haul – when I got home from running errands or shopping. Where had I left it? For the life of me I couldn’t remember. I could only vaguely remember anything prior to this moment. All I remembered was cleaning up, being hit by that awful stench of death, then seeing Ben properly. I must have dropped my purse then.

I didn’t want to venture back in there, near the body that had once been my husband, the kids’ father, now a skin-wrapped shell housing flesh and bones. I didn’t want to relive the reality that he was gone – the kids’ hero, our financial security, the handyman who kept our home running smoothly. Who would fix the leaky sink in our master bathroom? Who would remember to change the oil in my car? Who would replace the lightbulbs in that ridiculous light fixture hovering twenty feet high in the entryway? God knew how much I hated heights. Ben knew too.

Selfish bastard. Taking away the one thing I depended on – him.

I rounded the corner into the living room, bracing myself for the sight and smell and aura of decay. Sure enough, I found my purse – and a tipped vodka bottle – at the foot of the sofa, right below where Ben’s head hung crookedly off the cushion. Anger rumbled from an unknown place deep within me, and I picked up the bottle by the neck and threw it at the wall. It smashed into a ring of liquid that dribbled to the floor, joining the shards of glass.

How dare he do this to me! How dare he do this to our kids! How dare he make me a widow! How dare he, how dare he, how dare he! Hot, furious tears rolled down my cheeks, the tears of a scorned woman. Ben had rejected me; had rejected our life together.

Through the sobs I grabbed my purse strap and rooted through tampons and a wallet and lipstick until my fingers felt the slickness of my phone. I pulled it out and ran to the bathroom, hovering by the toilet in case I threw up again. I dialed, praying through one ring, two rings, three rings, that Lane would pick up. On the fourth ring, he answered.

‘Hey, Harp. What’s up?’ Husky with sleep, Lane spoke so casually I almost forgot I wasn’t calling about dinner plans, but about my husband’s suicide.

‘It’s Ben.’ Thick and unsteady, I didn’t recognize my own voice.

‘Hold on.’ The line crackled as Lane shifted the phone. ‘What time is it?’

‘I don’t know. Listen to me, Lane. Ben’s dead!’ They were the only words I could push out before I slipped into a blubbering stream of sobs.

‘Slow down, Harp. I can’t understand you. What’s wrong?’ Lane spoke coolly, evenly, his calmness tempering my frantic nerves, but only momentarily.

‘He’s gone, Lane.’ I didn’t believe it as I said it. It couldn’t be real. And yet the reality of it was painted on my shirt in blood.

‘Who’s gone? Harp, what happened?’

‘Ben.’ The tears flowed freely, but I found a sliver of my voice, just enough to say everything I needed to say. ‘On the couch … he killed himself.’

Lane stopped me with the urgency of his tone. ‘Oh my God. Ben’s dead?’

‘I don’t know what to do. How am I going to tell the kids?’

‘Where are Elise and Jackson, Harp?’ Lane intercepted. ‘You can’t let them see that.’

‘They’re at Mom’s for the night. What do I even say to them? They’ll never understand. And Jackson … this will destroy him, Lane. How will I pay the bills? I don’t have a job, and Ben’s life insurance won’t pay out for suicide. We depended on him for everything, and he took it all away! How could he do this to his family?’ One after another,