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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СКАЧАТЬ was no laughter. They were miserable over there from the beginning. I remember feeling like they didn’t deserve a house as grand as 312 Bristol Lane.

      I remember sitting here thinking I wished they would just move out, even on day one.

      Still, I don’t remember the ins and outs of their lives or the details of what they were all about. What did they do all day? What interactions did I witness? I can’t really recall. It’s hell to get old, for the mind to start to fade. It’s crazy what we remember and what we forget.

      I rock for a bit more, staring at the house, still trying to jog my memory, but it’s not really working. It’s like I can’t remember a time the sunshine-yellow woman didn’t live next door. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to remember a time when she didn’t. I like them. They bring energy to the street.

      The longer I think, though, the more anxious I get. I feel a bit like my skin is crawling, the prickling of the hairs on my arms making me uneasy. I may not remember the last couple so well, but I do get this sense of dread, of heaviness.

      And even though I can’t remember the details, I do get one overwhelming vibe from my jaunt down memory lane: I don’t think I liked them very much.

      In fact, the more I stare at the house, the more I’m certain of it. I didn’t like them at all, especially her. That dark, luscious hair didn’t fool me. She was beautiful on the outside, I know that. But she wasn’t a good person.

      She was nosy. That’s it. I remember. She was so, so nosy. Always looking at me, perusing me like I was some kind of person to keep an eye on. The nerve of her. I’ve lived here so long, and this young thing moved in and thought she could take over the lane. She thought she could be rude, could get in my business. She was always glaring at me, always staring. And not in a neighbourly way or a curious way. It was in a way that told me she didn’t like me.

      There were no afternoon teas with that one. There were no sweet gestures or pies or kind exchanges. There were just nosy stares and questions about what I was doing. There was no neighbourly love, I remember now.

      I was so glad when they left. Surprised but glad. Did they leave in the middle of the night? I think they did. If my memory serves me correctly, which in fairness it doesn’t always, I think one morning I got up and the couple from 312 Bristol Lane were gone. They must’ve packed their belongings in the night and left like some scoundrels disappearing under the cover of darkness.

      I knew she shouldn’t be trusted from day one. And I was right.

      I guess none of it really matters now, though, in truth. Because those neighbours weren’t even important. The new people in 312 Bristol Lane are all that matters. I’m glad the other couple left so early. These two suit me so much better.

      Still, I wonder what happened to them, the old neighbours. Where are they now? Is life working out as they planned?

      I’ve lived long enough to know that life has a way of working out differently, no matter who you are. And now, the couple across the street get a chance to live out their story here, me bearing witness. I hope they get it right. I hope they make the story a good one. I hope they don’t turn out to be scoundrels. I hope with all my heart they find the life they want.

      But even as the thought dances in my deepest wishes, I look down to see my hands slightly shaking. They deserve happiness … but will they get it? Will they find a way to make it work?

      I inhale deeply, clutching my hands together in a prayer-like pose, trying to calm down the tremors.

      It can happen. They can make it work. They can find the life I couldn’t. They can make their own happiness, can’t they? It’s possible. It’s certainly possible. But then again, life doesn’t always work out how you hoped.

      * * *

      It’s dinnertime. I spent the morning in my chair, of course, with my cup of tea. At noon, I watched my soap operas and read the newspaper. I even grabbed my favourite novel, Gone With the Wind. I was feeling literary today I guess, the dusty pages dog-eared from being reread so many times. After all, I was so bored today with the couple from 312 Bristol Lane gone. I wish I knew where they went, if for no other reason than to entertain my mind today with fancy visions of them doing whatever it is they’re doing. I hope they did something fun.

      I was sitting in my rocking chair, flipping through the pages of my book with Amos on my lap when they came home. The car pulled into the driveway. It was late afternoon when they returned, smiling and holding hands up the walkway before heading inside. They looked good, happier than usual. I smiled at the sight of their return, the sun lowering on the horizon. I was so glad they were back. I closed my book and studied them, waiting to see what the view would uncover today.

      It makes me a little sad that my day depends so much on their actions. How crazy that my mood clearly improved when they came home. Then again, they are the only sense of life left in my days. They’re the only things that remind me of what it means to do more than simply exist. Maybe I just need to escape from this house, from the memories – and from the date.

      I have a cup of tea in my hands now as I settle back into the rocking chair. I ate a quick meal at the table, mainly to stretch my legs a bit. I found myself hurrying, though, to get my eating over with. I wanted to get back here so I didn’t miss anything. I hardly got to see any of them today, so I want to make the most of tonight.

      Darkness looms as I settle in, studying the changing sky. A few birds are flying about, left and right, the impending night inciting them to head for home. Amos lets out a meow before plodding off to his cat bed in the corner of the room.

      I stay put.

      They’re having dinner tonight in the dining room.

      It seems they only have dinner there once in a while. They have a tiny table in their kitchen, too.

      She’s gone above and beyond today, though. There are beautiful candles adding a soft glow to the room. With the encroaching darkness, it’s getting even easier to see the scene. She still hasn’t put blinds or curtains up. I hope she keeps it that way. The glass is a little bit dingier now, time passing and caking a thin veil of dirt and dust on the pane. Still, my view is almost unobstructed. Maybe she’ll wash the windows soon and my view will be improved.

      She’s wearing royal blue tonight, a satiny finish on the top of her dress gleaming beautifully in the eerie glow of the candlelight. The light dances off her face, her hair swept upward in an elegant style. Her dark lipstick painted on her perfectly shaped lips contrasts with her pale skin in a way that is arrestingly gorgeous. I can’t stop watching her as she carefully places items on the table, a graceful domestic dance.

      Next, she puts a casserole in the centre of the table, fidgeting with her hair after she does. It seems like she has a bunch of different dishes on the table. I wonder what she’s made and if she’s a good cook. She disappears for a moment, walking back with a basket between her two hands, golden bread rolls stacked up towards her chin. I wonder if she made them from scratch. They’re the best, after all. They’re so worth the work, even if they are tedious. My mouth waters at the thought of the homemade rolls I always made, the ones that practically melted in my mouth.

      Eventually, he comes in, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. He loosens the black tie around his neck, the white collar on his shirt standing at attention. They sit across from each other, the long table in between them, each at the head seats so they are sideways to me. They each hold up a glass of champagne or wine or some other drink and toast. The candlelight СКАЧАТЬ