The Wife Upstairs by Rachel Hawkins EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Publish Date: January 5, 2021
- Language: English
- Genre: Ghost Thrillers, Gothic Fiction, Domestic Thrillers
- Format: PDF/ePub
- Size: 5 MB
- Pages: 304
- Price: Free
- ISBN-13: 978-1250245496
FEBRUARY
It is the absolute shittiest day for a walk.
Rain has been pouring down all morning, making my drive
from Center Point out here to Mountain Brook a nightmare,
soaking the hem of my jeans as I get out of the car in the
Reeds’ driveway, making my sneakers squelch on the marble
floors of the foyer.
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But Mrs. Reed is holding her dog Bear’s leash, making a
face at me, this frown of exaggerated sympathy that’s
supposed to let me know how bad she feels about sending me
out in the rain on this Monday morning.
That’s the important thing—that I know that she feels bad.
She still expects me to do it, though.
I’ve been walking dogs in the Thornfield Estates
subdivision for almost a month now, and if there’s one thing
I’ve definitely figured out, it’s that what matters most is how
everything looks.
Mrs. Reed looks sympathetic. She looks like she absolutely
hates that I have to walk her collie, Bear, on a cold and stormy
day in mid-February.
She looks like she actually gives a fuck about me as a
person.
She doesn’t, though, which is fine, really.
It’s not like I give a fuck about her, either.
So I smile, tugging at the bottom of my army-green
raincoat. “Came prepared,” I tell her, taking Bear’s leash.
We’re standing in the front foyer of the Reed home. To my left
is a giant framed mirror propped against the wall, reflecting
me, Mrs. Reed, and Bear, already straining toward the door.
There’s also a distressed wood table holding a bowl of
potpourri as well as a pair of diamond hoop earrings, flung
carelessly when Mrs. Reed came in last night from whatever
charity function she’d been attending.
Charity functions are big around here, I’ve noticed,
although I never can figure out what they’re actually raising
money for. The invitations I see lying on end tables or fastened
to refrigerator doors with magnets are a word salad of virtue
signaling. Children, battered women, homeless,
underprivileged: various euphemisms that all mean “poor.”
No telling what Mrs. Reed was supporting last night,
really, but that’s another thing I don’t actually care about.
And I don’t let my eyes linger on the earrings.
Bear’s leash is smooth in my hand as I give Mrs. Reed a
little wave and head out onto the wide front porch. It’s painted
cement, slick in the damp, and my ancient sneakers nearly skid
across it.
I hear the door close behind me, and wonder what Mrs.
Reed will do this morning while I’m off walking her dog.
Have another cup of coffee? Chase it with a Xanax? Plan some
other charity function?
Maybe a brunch to raise money for kids who don’t know
how to yacht.
The rain has tapered off some, but the morning is still cold,
and I wish I’d brought gloves. My hands look raw and
chapped, the knuckles an angry red.
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