The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (7 page)

A static photo of an older woman with a light coffee complexion and tired eyes suddenly dominated his screen. He clicked to accept the call.

“Hello?” Though the woman’s voice was shaky, she stressed the
H
sound. The emphasis made clear that the language was not her own.

He introduced himself with a truncated version of the message he’d just sent.

“Yes. We’ve been waiting to speak with you.” Mrs. Santos called over her shoulder. “Luis.
Vem cá
.
O investigador
.”

Sounds of someone shuffling in the background came through the speakers. A metal chair scraped against tile as Mrs. Santos moved her seat to make room for her husband. When Luis came into view, Ryan knew he had the right couple. Ana had her father’s straight nose, though his bridge was slightly crooked, perhaps the result of a break at some point in his life. He had a reddish-brown face framed by curly black hair, far more textured than the straight bob that hung beside his wife’s fair cheeks. Together, Ryan could see how they’d produced a woman with Ana’s dark, wavy hair and caramel coloring.

“I didn’t have a good number for you,” Ryan said.

Mr. Santos looked sheepish. “The phone is having problems. We are working with the company.”

“You can’t let Tom have Sophia,” Beatriz blurted. She leaned toward the screen. “He killed our daughter. He will hurt Sophia.”

Ryan was thrown by the accusation. Did they blame Tom for their daughter’s suicide? “He has an alibi,” Ryan said. He remembered the redhead’s blush as she embarrassed herself on national television, admitting that she’d been flirting with a married man while the female anchor tut-tutted. “Why do you think he is responsible for Ana’s death?”

Beatriz and her husband exchanged a determined look. She stared straight at the camera lens, not at her reflection on screen as so many people did during video calls. “He beat her.”

Ryan nodded slowly, giving his brain time to run the relevant data: 25 percent of women were hit by a partner at some point in their lives. Depressed men were more likely to become violent than despondent, and losing a job—not to mention a career—was a prime driver of depression in men. Prior physical assaults also helped explain Ana’s suicide. More than a quarter of abused women made attempts on their lives.

However, Ryan reminded himself, Ana’s parents had ten million reasons to lie. “How did you know Tom was abusive? Did Ana tell you that Tom hit her?”

An exasperated look passed over Beatriz’s face. She pointed at the screen. “My daughter and I were very close. I could tell something was wrong, and she had bruises when she’d call.”

“On her face?” Ryan’s hand curled into a fist.
Say yes. Say yes
. Facial lacerations, swollen lips, sunglasses worn indoors—such things did not go unnoticed in suburban grocery stores and Wall Street offices. He could get people to corroborate or refute Ana’s parents’ claims.

Beatriz glanced at her husband. Luis kept his eyes trained on his hands like a chastised child. Was he embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to help his daughter? Or ashamed that his wife would make a false accusation against their former son-in-law?

“She told me so,” Beatriz said. “She had fingerprints on her arms from where he’d grab her. She had bruises on her stomach. He beat her where people wouldn’t see.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He wanted her dead.”

“Do you think Tom drove Ana to kill herself?”

Beatriz pulled her chin into her neck. “No. Ana would never,
never
, have jumped and left Sophia with him. Never.” She frowned. “Why do you think that? She would never.”

Luis leaned into the screen. He didn’t make eye contact, but Ryan knew that was only because he stared directly at Ryan’s face on his monitor. “Ana would not have taken her life. That bastard is to blame.”

“He killed her,” Beatriz repeated, blinking hard with each word. “He did it.”

But he couldn’t have. Multiple people had seen Tom at the pool when Ana went overboard. Ryan tried to sound casual. “Did you know about the policy before I called?”

Beatriz’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. But that doesn’t matter.”

“Ana left Tom as the primary guardian. She didn’t try to make you the guardian, despite the abuse.”

Beatriz now looked at him with bare distaste. If she could have reached through the computer screen and slapped him, Ryan bet that she would have.

“What could she do?” Her hands flew out toward the camera. “What was she supposed to do? Tom is Sophia’s biological parent and, and . . .” She stuttered, searching for the right words. Ryan watched her fingertips circle the nook in her thin neck. “Ana was frightened of him. He . . . He punched her in the stomach when she was pregnant.”

If lying was a disease, this woman had all the symptoms. She was overanimated and lacked control of her facial movements or volume. Unfortunately for Ryan, he couldn’t be sure that her behavior wasn’t a result of the underlying circumstances. Severe stress—the kind caused by believing your son-in-law had killed your daughter and now had custody of your grandchild—had similar ticks.

“Luis, if Tom hit Ana before they married, why did she go through with it?”

Beatriz answered for her husband. “Ana was pregnant before they married. What choice did she have?”

Luis’s Adam’s apple bobbed. For a moment, Ryan thought the man might cry. “It’s our fault.” He sighed. “She felt guilty. All the money that she’d sent to help us out . . . his money.”

Beatriz gave her husband a small approving smile before turning her attention back to the camera. “We plan to challenge the . . .” She turned to her husband. “How do you say . . .”

“Custodianship,” Luis said. A lawyer’s word. They must have already consulted someone. “You will help us?”

Ryan couldn’t settle on a response. On one hand, Tom had seemed more aloof than the typical grieving husband. But that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t been with his wife when she’d gone overboard. And Ana’s parents had millions of reasons to lie. They knew that if Ana committed suicide, no one would get any money, and they clearly blamed Tom for pushing their daughter over the edge.

Something else troubled Ryan as well: Michael. Ana’s boss had never mentioned her having bruises or seeming frightened of her husband. He’d been all too willing to portray Tom as a
deadbeat. Somehow Ryan doubted that Michael would have kept quiet about spousal abuse if he’d had reason to suspect any.

“What about Ana’s boss?”

Luis’s brow furrowed. He looked to his wife and said something in Portuguese. Beatriz shook her head, as if to urge him to stop talking. Her husband continued, becoming more animated with each unintelligible word.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Ryan said loudly. “Did you know Michael Smith? Did Ana ever talk about him?”

Beatriz patted her husband’s leg. He settled back into his seat, visibly annoyed. She sighed. “Our daughter worked very hard for him.”

Luis pointed a finger at the screen. “You check on him too. He’s a bad man.”

“Because he fired Ana?”

Beatriz shot her husband a silencing look. He ignored her. “You investigate. That man shouldn’t get away with what he did.”

“What did he do?”

“None of that matters,” Beatriz snapped. “The point is that Tom cannot be allowed to raise our grandchild. You have to recommend that we get custody. Tom’s to blame.”

“But what did Michael do?”

Luis opened his mouth. A glance at his wife’s withering expression shut it. “We have to go now.” Beatriz sucked in her breath. Tears melted her brown eyes. “Please. I beg you. Don’t let Tom hurt our granddaughter too.”

The screen went dark.

8

August 12

S
ophia and I entered the house like cartoon burglars, on the pads of our feet, leaning sideways so as not to open the door wide. I’d told her Daddy was sick and we shouldn’t wake him. Really, I just didn’t want her interacting with her father in whatever state I would find him.

The late-afternoon sun saturated the house’s beige walls in blood-orange light. I scooped Sophia into my arms and then scanned for signs of drunken stupidity: broken glass, scattered clothing, blood splatter. The house’s open layout left clear sight lines into the dining room, living room, den, and upstairs hallway. Everything remained in order. No signs of a binge. No Tom.

My enraged heart pounded out the buildup in a techno song. I braced for the drop. Where was my husband? Why hadn’t he picked her up?

Sophia nuzzled into my neck. There’s a cliché that compares kids to sponges. It’s right, but for the wrong reason. Kids don’t soak up knowledge; they absorb their parents’ emotions. Sophia sopped up my anxiety like it was dirty dishwater.

I cooed in her ear. “You go to your room and play for a bit while Mommy checks to see if Daddy needs anything. Then we’ll head out for a slice of pizza.”

I crept up the spiral staircase, one arm beneath my daughter’s bottom, one hand gripping the railing. Cool air hissed through
ceiling vents, electronics hummed beneath the chirps of birds in the backyard. No sound of Tom.

The burnt smell of vacuumed carpet greeted me as we entered Sophia’s room. I’d cleaned yesterday. Her puffy duvet lay on the bed like a deflated pastry. I placed Sophia on top of it, and her arm tightened around my neck.

“You have to let go, honey.” I tried to keep my voice light, masking my fury at her father for somehow forgetting her. “I need to check on Daddy.”

I slipped my head from her noose. Sophia’s brown eyes reminded me of a cartoon character. Large. Shivering. TV was made for times like this. Unfortunately, we didn’t have one in her room. I handed her an unreadable book, just like in daycare. “You take a rest and I’ll be right back.”

I walked down the hallway, peeking into the two guest bedrooms between Sophia’s room and the master suite. The beds in each remained made, ready for hosting our nonexistent friends and family. I didn’t need to check the attached bathrooms. Only college kids passed out beside the toilet after binge drinking. Adults found a way to drag themselves into bed.

The double doors to our bedroom stood shut. I turned the knob and stepped inside. Covers lay in a twisted ball in the center of the king mattress. Pillows hid beneath the bed frame. An empty scotch glass waited beside a business book on the nightstand.
The Brass Ring: Negotiating Without Compromise.
A man’s book. The female version would have a different title:
The 50% Solution: How to Reach an Amicable Agreement Without Resentment
.

Tom’s phone charger lay on top of the book. His phone didn’t. Worry started to overwhelm my anger. I’d assumed Tom would be passed out in one of the bedrooms. What if he’d been in a real accident . . . or not an accident? He’d been depressed. He’d discussed faking his death. Could he have done something crazy? Something we couldn’t recover from?

I hurried down the back staircase to the empty kitchen, cursing myself for not paying more attention to our conversation the
prior night. I again checked the den. No Tom. The pool? Was it possible to intentionally drown in four feet of water?

I flew down our sloped property to my sanctuary. As I ran, I renewed my religion:
Dear God, please don’t let anything else have happened. Please. Please. Please
. Birds screamed warnings of my arrival. A cardinal fled its perch atop a cast iron post. I flung open the gate. A tight vinyl cap stretched over the water. I had activated the automatic pool cover last night. He hadn’t removed it.

“Tom? Tom, are you home?” Fear sneaked into my voice as I shouted across the yard and then headed down the outdoor steps to the basement entrance, still calling for my spouse. The playroom remained in its recent state of mild disarray. Plastic food littered the floor near a retro-styled minikitchen, the aftermath of a food fight between imaginary friends. Colored construction paper lay in a loose stack beside the easel. A few stuffed animals spilled from wicker toy baskets.

The basement guest room remained as untouched as always. The attached bathroom looked undisturbed. I continued my search into the subgrade portions of the basement where the light from the playroom’s sliding glass door didn’t reach.

My husband’s lair beckoned, a windowless, soundproofed bar and theater room behind a heavy, barn-style door. I entered and flipped the switch, praying for the light to reveal my man passed out on a recliner in front of the projector screen. Pot lights revealed a half-empty, floor-to-ceiling wine fridge and vacant black leather chairs.

Nerves made me twist the gold band on my finger, what was left of my wedding jewelry. I’d hawked the engagement ring to pay the mortgage after Tom had been unemployed for 180 days. If I had known we’d default on the house anyway, I would have saved it to pay off the credit cards.

Had he gone out? Where could he go, though, without any money? And what had he gone out to do?

I ran back out into the yard and around the house to the far garage. Tom kept his car on the left side of the house, away
from the used Camry that I now drove, as though he feared depreciation by association. I keyed in the garage code: 0505. Not a birthday or an anniversary. The number didn’t mean anything to us, Tom had explained. No robber would guess it.

The door opened with a loud crack. A motor whirred as horizontal sections folded into the garage ceiling. I didn’t need to wait for the wall to retract all the way. The cement floor revealed what I needed to know.

He’d taken the Maserati.

9

November 23

R
yan hustled across the busy avenue toward the taller of two skyscrapers, trying to cross the street before the walk countdown hit zero. He was headed back to Ana’s old office—this time unannounced. He doubted Michael would make time for him again, and he couldn’t risk the head of Derivative Capital skirting his calls. Michael had some explaining to do.

Ana’s father hated the guy, and Ryan believed he understood why. Michael had fired Ana
because
of the spousal abuse. It fit everything together. Michael had been uncomfortable during their earlier conversation because he’d felt guilty for failing to report the domestic violence and, instead, firing Ana for absenteeism. The job loss would have robbed Ana of whatever power she had held onto in her relationship, making her financially vulnerable and pushing her over the edge emotionally. As a result, Ana’s father blamed Michael almost as much as Tom for his daughter’s suicide.