The Wife He Buried Alive novel · Chapter 26 of 32

Chapter 26: The Wire

The van was parked half a block from Harriet's house, with its engine off and a plumber's name painted on the side.

The detective sat on a folding stool with a headset on.

The investigator Winston paid sat beside him, a thin man who ate sunflower seeds one at a time and spat the shells into a paper cup.

I sat on a crate between them with a second headset pressed to one ear.

On the screen in front of us, a green line jumped each time Juliet breathed.

"She's at the door," the detective said.

We heard the bell, and then the old brass knocker, and then Harriet's voice, close and warm.

"Juliet, darling. You're soaked. Come in, come in."

"Hello, Harriet."

"Give me your coat. And your bag. I'll put them in the hall closet, where they won't drip."

"I'll keep the bag."

"Nonsense. Sit."

I closed my eyes.

I had heard that word in her kitchen four nights ago, and my skin went cold hearing it now.

A door shut.

Juliet's voice came back, further away and slightly muffled.

"She took my bag. The phone's in it."

"That's fine," the detective said into his mic. "We don't need the phone."

"She's put me in the front room. There's tea."

"Don't drink it," I said, though she couldn't hear me.

The investigator spat a shell into his cup.

For the next ten minutes Harriet talked about flowers.

Peonies, she said, were impossible in November, so she had ordered white roses for every table in the ballroom.

She talked about the seating, and about the mayor's wife, who had a sensitive stomach.

She asked Juliet whether she had eaten, and whether she was sleeping, and whether the lawyer she had hired was any good.

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