• Complain

Carla Neggers - The Widow

Here you can read online Carla Neggers - The Widow full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

Romance novel Science fiction Adventure Detective Science History Home and family Prose Art Politics Computer Non-fiction Religion Business Children Humor

Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.

No cover

The Widow: summary, description and annotation

We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "The Widow" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.

From New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers comes the gripping story of one womans determination to solve the unsolvable case: her husbands murder. Four days after Abigail Brownings wedding, her life changed in a way she never expected: her husband was shot, meeting his death along the rocky Mount Desert Island coast. Was it a random act of violence, or could someone have wanted Christopher dead? Thats the question that has haunted Abigail, now a homicide detective, for the past seven years. As determined as ever to find her husbands killer, she returns to the foggy Maine island and the home she has inherited there after receiving an anonymous tip. Is it just another false lead by someone looking for attention? Or can she finally prove that his death was tied to something that happened that night and that he was murdered? As the search-and-rescue worker who located Chris too late to save him, Owen Garrison still carries guilt from that fateful night. Constantly on the go as an expert in his field, hes back in Maine for the summer. Right from the start, Abigails presence ruffles feathers among the islanders. Owen sees shes not the same woman she was seven years ago. As he helps her unravel the mystery, they learn that the layers of deceit and lies are even thicker than they could have imagined. Theyre convinced that Chris was killed because he got too close to the truth and that the danger he faced isnt in the past its here and now. And its up to Abigail and Owen to keep pushing for the truth to stop a killer from striking again

Carla Neggers: author's other books


Who wrote The Widow? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.

The Widow — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work

Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "The Widow" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.

Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make
Carla Neggers The Widow The first book in the FBI series 2006 To my mother - photo 1

Carla Neggers

The Widow

The first book in the FBI series, 2006

To my mother, and to the memory of my father

CHAPTER 1

Abigail Browning squirted charcoal lighter fluid on the mound of papers shed torn up and piled into her backyard grill.

She had more pages to go. Another two spiral notebooks.

She set her lighter fluid on the little wooden shelf next to the grill and picked up the top notebook from the plastic chair behind her. When she opened the cover, she tried not to look at her scrawled handwriting, as pained as the words shed written, or at the stains of long-spent tears that had smeared the ink as shed forced herself to recount the tragic story of her honeymoon.

Each journal-there were fourteen, two for each year of loss-began with the same litany of facts, as if the retelling itself might produce some new tidbit, some new insight shed missed.

Its the fourth day of my Maine honeymoon, and Im napping on the couch in the front room of the cottage my husband inherited from his grandfather.

Two loud noises awaken me. Tools clattering to the floor in the back room. A hammer. Perhaps a crowbar. Im startled, but also amused, because Id spent the morning helping Chris repair a leak.

As I get up to investigate the noises, I think it must be an unwritten rule-newlyweds arent supposed to fix leaks on their honeymoon.

Abigail tore off that first page by itself and ripped it into quarters, setting them neatly atop her pile, the lighter fluid seeping into the cheap paper and old blue ink as if it were fresh tears.

Last nights anonymous call had changed everything. She needed a cover story to explain her actions-what she planned to do next.

She also needed clarity and objectivity.

Seven years of journals. Seven years, she thought, of trying to restore her emotional life.

I smell roses and ocean as I get up from the couch.

A window must be open.

Even now, at thirty-two, no longer a young bride, no longer a law student with a handsome FBI special agent husband, no longer inexperienced in matters of violent death, Abigail could feel herself walking into the back room, convinced the wind had knocked over tools she and Chris had left haphazardly that morning, when they gave up their leak-fixing to make love upstairs in their sun-filled bedroom.

She noticed the slight tremble in her hands and swore under her breath, tensing her fingers as she tore more pages and set them atop her pile. There was no wind, and the grass-what there was of it in her postage stamp of a backyard-was damp from an overnight rain. Adequate conditions for burning, although she was in a tank top and shorts. If her bare skin got hit with sparks, itd serve her right.

As I step into the back room, I see not a cracked window but the door to the porch standing wide open, and for the first time I feel a jolt of real fear.

I didnt leave the door open.

Chris?

I call my husbands name just as I hear the floorboards creak behind me.

Just as the blow comes to the back of my head.

Her chest tightening, Abigail dropped the partially torn spiral notebook back onto the chair and quickly struck a wooden match, tossing it onto the pile of ripped pages.

Flames shot two feet into the hot, still air.

Whoa, there. Thats some fire youve got going.

She looked up at Bob OReilly trotting down the last of the steps from his top-floor apartment in the triple-decker they and Scoop Wisdom-all three of them detectives with the Boston Police Department-had bought together a year ago, pooling their resources to afford the citys sky-high real estate prices. Bob, a twice-divorced father of three, lived alone. Scoop, who worked in internal affairs and had a well-earned reputation with the women of Boston, occupied the middle floor. Abigail, a homicide detective and widow, had the first floor. She got along with Bob and Scoop partly because they understood she had no intention of sleeping with either of them.

Outdoor burnings illegal, Bob said.

Im getting ready to throw some hot dogs on the grill.

You dont eat hot dogs.

Salmon, then.

At six-two, the veteran detective had nine inches on Abigail in height, and, although he was pushing fifty, he could run ten miles and still move the next day. Hed taught her how to use free weights properly, and hed taught her crime scene investigation. Shed taught him what it was like to lose someone to violence.

Shed taught him that seven years was the blink of an eye.

A page, filled with bloodred ink, went up in flames.

As I regain consciousness, I feel the ice pack on the lump on the back of my head and almost vomit from the raging pain of my concussion.

Dont move, my husband tells me quietly. An ambulance is on the way.

I try to tell him that Im fine, but I become very still as I notice the anger in his face. The knowledge. The awful sense of betrayal.

He knows who did this to me.

Bob pointed at the five-pound Folgers coffee can that she had set on the plastic chair, behind the stack of spiral notebooks. Whats that for?

The ashes.

Come again?

Im performing a cleansing ritual.

A firebug I arrested ten years ago said the same thing.

This is different, Abigail said, watching the pages blacken and burn. Once Bob left, shed finish tearing up the last two notebooks, burn their pages, rid herself of their raw emotion.

Detective Bob OReilly of the BPD wouldnt understand cleansing rituals. He had pale skin and freckles and red hair that was graying gracefully; only his cornflower eyes suggested the work hed done for almost thirty years ever got to him. His second wife had walked out on him two years ago, telling him he was an emotional basket case and recommending therapy. Instead, Bob got drunk with cop friends, packed up his stuff, and, swearing off marriage forever, moved out, eventually buying the triple-decker with Scoop and Abigail.

Is that your handwriting? The purple ink? he asked.

Abigail glanced at a scrap that had just caught fire. I used different colored inks depending on my mood.

Hows a purple-ink mood different from, say, a blue-ink mood?

I dont know. It just is.

What are these, journals or something? He seemed to have to struggle to keep the disbelief out of his tone.

I started keeping a journal after Chris died. My therapist suggested it.

Oh.

She said to write stream-of-consciousness, without thinking, but to try to use all five senses and the present tense. She wanted me to write about our time togetherwhat happened when he died.

Bob scratched the back of his thick neck. It helped?

I dont know. I guess. I havent thrown myself off Cadillac Mountain.

She grabbed the partially torn notebook and opened it up to the middle, tearing a hunk of pages, trying not to look at the words.

Chris leaves me with the ambulance crew, who will take me to the emergency room at the hospital in Bar Harbor. He doesnt say where hes going. He doesnt promise to be back soon. He doesnt promise anything.

I have no premonition of anything bad about to happen.

I just dont want him to leave me.

Bob unhooked a pair of tongs from the side of the grill and stirred the blackened pages, rekindling the dying fire. You never thought about killing yourself, Abigail, he said, not looking at her. Only thing you thought about was finding out who killed your husband.

She flung more pages on the fire.

By nightfall, Im worried. So are Doyle Alden, a local police officer, and Owen Garrison, Chriss rich neighbor. I can see it in their faces.

Chris should be back by now.

Next page
Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make

Similar books «The Widow»

Look at similar books to The Widow. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.


No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
No cover
No cover
Carla Neggers
Carla Neggers - Abandon
Abandon
Carla Neggers
Carla Neggers - Saints Gate
Saints Gate
Carla Neggers
Carla Neggers - The Cabin
The Cabin
Carla Neggers
Carla Neggers - Cold Dawn
Cold Dawn
Carla Neggers
Carla Neggers - The Whisper
The Whisper
Carla Neggers
Reviews about «The Widow»

Discussion, reviews of the book The Widow and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.