The Widow Next Door: The most chilling of new crime thriller books that you will read in 2018. L.A. Detwiler

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      I study the faces I know so well but that somehow seem so distant from me. The glass shifts slightly, leaving part of the picture uncovered. It will fall prey to the elements, to the air of life around it. It’s not protected anymore.

      Gazing at the photo, I am bombarded with thoughts and ideas, a dull roar making me tired. I listen to the words, trying to home in on the ones to pay attention to, wondering how I got here. Wondering if I could’ve ever imagined how it would all turn out.

      I couldn’t have. I would have never known how things would rotate and swirl, spinning into a cacophony of chaos as we drudged through the years. I didn’t understand it, even then, how actions have consequences. Or maybe I just didn’t want to understand it.

      I certainly had experiences. Looking at the eyes of the woman in the photograph, I see what so many didn’t.

      I see what he didn’t.

      I see the secrets of a haunted past, of consequences not yet uncovered, of the havoc my actions would reap covered up with a charming smile.

      Life flies by. That’s the cliché all old people say to the young, but it’s so damn true. One minute, you’re standing by the rose bushes on your wedding day, wondering what beautiful things life will greet you with. The next, your frail, shaking hand is touching the glass of the past, staring into eyes and skin you don’t even recognise anymore, wondering how it all came to pass.

      I wipe the single tear that streams down my cheek, and I exhale.

      ‘I miss you,’ I say into the crisp October air, wishing like in the movies, a voice could whisper back. But it doesn’t. I’m alone, all alone, as usual. There will be no anniversary card from him today. There will be no red roses, no sweet embrace to remind me I’m not alone in this crazy world. Instead, there will be me, Amos and an endless day of nothingness, which has become our tradition.

      It doesn’t do to dwell on the past. I know that. I know I have to keep going. Sighing, I lay the photo flat on the mantel, the cracked glass now face down. I tear myself away. I step on the creaking floorboard in the living room as I make my way to my only sanctuary – the rocking chair. I plunk my body down, suddenly regretting the dress slacks and blouse I put on. I don’t know what I was thinking this morning when I painstakingly got dressed. It’s Wednesday. I have nowhere to be today. It’s not grocery shopping day or doctor’s appointment day. It’s just a stay-at-home Wednesday, even if it is my wedding anniversary. I guess it just seemed respectful to put some effort in. In some crazy part of my mind, I suppose I thought maybe he could see me from wherever he is. It’s nuts, I know. But putting on those soft pink slacks and matching blouse made me feel like I was appreciating what today was. It just didn’t feel right sitting in my robe.

      Nonetheless, as the pants cut into my flesh uncomfortably, I wish I’d stayed in my nightclothes. If you’re going to stay home alone, you may as well be comfortable.

      That’s what conclusion I’ve come to, anyway, even though my mother liked to tell me in my youth that beauty was pain. Sometimes now I think beauty might be overrated … then again, maybe it’s just a result of my unhappiness when I see the pallid skin in the mirror, the fried, grey hair. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking that beauty no longer counts, the corpse-like figure who peers back at me far from a thing of beauty.

      Out of my peripheral vision, the heavy door to my right, in the centre of the back wall, calls me. Most days, I don’t look at it, the barricade efficiently doing its job. The brass doorknob hasn’t had fingerprints on it for so long, I don’t even know if it would turn.

      In some ways, I’d like to think it wouldn’t. I’d like to think it’s rusted shut, shielding me from what’s just beyond the threshold.

      A tear comes to my eye as I try to ignore it, try not to look at the door that hasn’t been opened in so long, that won’t be opened.

      Even without looking at it, though, I can see it as if I’m staring at it. I can feel the smooth wood, the stain on it almost tacky. I can feel the imperfections and details, their pattern memorised by my creaky old fingers, which still remember every knot, every rough spot on that door, every detail. I glance down at my fingers as they do a dance on the rocking chair, recalling the shape of the doorknob and its chilling feel on my fingertips.

      I take a deep breath, the pain in my chest swelling as I try to push the thought aside.

      I’ve become a master at ignoring it. I walk past that door every day. I see it every day. Yet, a piece of me doesn’t see it, doesn’t notice it. It’s been blacked out.

      Why today? Why now? Why does it have to come creeping in, to make me feel even worse?

      I shudder, saying out loud, ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it. That’s enough.’ I hold my head, take a deep breath and open my eyes.

      There. All’s better now.

      I rock slowly, my head against the wooden headrest. Amos meows, jumping in the window this time to look out with me. He stares at a robin perched on the picket fence as I study the two-storey across the street. The bird looks so out of place against the rotting leaves. A bird like that belongs in the perfect white snow, a crimson marvel in a sea of plainness.

      It flaps and drifts upward and away, landing on the spouting of 312 Bristol Lane.

      I smile as I look at the perfect bricks, the adorable little window at the top, the shining windows in the front. It’s such a lovely house, made even lovelier by the fact there’s a couple there now, a couple I get to study.

      I rock in my chair for a while, staring at the house, wondering where they are. The car is gone, and the house is so empty. I realise I’m so lost without them. It’s odd being on Bristol Lane all alone yet again. I really don’t know how I used to survive when they weren’t over there. What did I do with myself? It feels like a lifetime ago.

      My mind drifts back, and I think about how not so long ago, the house was always empty, the creaky sign in the front yard begging someone to move in. It felt like ages and ages that 312 Bristol Lane was abandoned, desolate, and lonely. Just like me.

      I furrow my brow, massaging my forehead with my thumb and forefinger. Before Bristol Lane, before the empty months, someone lived there. I know they did. I remember there was a couple there for a while, a short while. I remember they left in a hurry on a day not unlike today. Was it last year? Two years ago? Was it October they left or was it summer? Everything’s messed up in my head, and I can’t seem to set it straight. What happened to them? Why did they leave so quickly? My memory fails me.

      But sitting here by myself with nothing to watch, I challenge myself to remember. It’s good to push the mind. I shake my head, trying to recall, searching the inner recesses of my brain for faces and names and details. My head starts to ache from the process, but I can’t let it go.

      Who were they? I can’t believe my memory is so hazy. It frustrates me, causing me to rock a little faster, to rub my head a little bit harder.

       Think. Remember.

      Images come to mind of a couple, a black-haired woman with very tanned skin and an exotic look about her. I see her fuzzily in my mind, the details of her face blurred. She was lean and lanky, but in a model sort of way. She was married, her husband a rather large man. I remember thinking he didn’t need any pie. I do know that much.

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