The Widow's Husband's Secret Lie

by Freida McFadden

You think you know who the killer is. It’s obvious, you say. You knew it from the first chapter. The first paragraph. The first sentence. The first letter. But you are wrong. There is nothing obvious about the identity of this antagonist. I have used red herring after red herring, woven in false identities and unreliable narrators, and fabricated evidence. At least three people who you thought were dead are actually alive. There is no possible way you could know the truth. There’s no way you could ever guess that the killer is actually Steve. Wait. Oh, crap. Ugh. Well, nobody reads the prologue anyway.

But every time I shop for shampoo, I start to doubt myself. Do I need one that is more hydrating? Less hydrating? Is my hair oily or dry?

Poppy sits beside me and idly picks up the paperback book I’ve got lying on the coffee table. She reads the description and flips through the pages. “The Boyfriend… Is this any good?” “Oh, yes—I love it. But I’m on page two, and I’m pretty sure I already know what the twist is going to be.” I take another tentative sip of tea. “Have you ever heard of the author, Freida McFadden?” “Nope.” “She writes psychological thrillers. The kind with short chapters and lots of twists that are shocking but also kind of completely out of nowhere.” “Still nope.” She hesitates. “Oh, wait. Did she write Fifty Shades of Grey?” “Uh, no.” “Harry Potter?” “No.” “Then no, never heard of her. What else did she write?” “She wrote this one thriller novella that was supposed to be satirical.” “Satirical? What does that mean?” “Like, it makes fun of other thrillers in a way that’s supposed to be over the top and funny.” Poppy frowns thoughtfully. “Was it actually funny?” “Eh. If you like that sort of thing.” I shrug. “Oh! She also wrote The Housemaid.” “Housemaid? Is she British?” Poppy asks. “Oh, I’m not sure. Yes, probably.”

I close my eyes, remembering the reflection of Grant’s face in the mirror of the sunglasses display. At the moment, it seemed so incredibly real. But now that I’m looking back on it, how could it have been? Grant is dead. I identified his body at the morgue. I attended his funeral, where they lowered his coffin into the ground and buried him six feet under. The only way I could have seen him is if he were a ghost, and I would be so mad if that happened, because it would seriously be a super-cheap twist.

But I’m being paranoid now. It’s obviously not Grant who is following me. Grant is dead. He is absolutely dead. I saw his dead body, and even though I’m not a doctor, it was pretty clear from looking at him that he was very, very dead. And it’s a good thing he is. Because I’m the one who killed him. And if he were still alive, he would be pissed.

“I could do it if I wanted. The director of the psychiatric ward is my father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s former college roommate. He’ll do whatever I want him to do—trust me.”

“But I never thought he would hurt Grant.” I allow tears to spring to my eyes, laying it on thick. “And besides, despite the terrible thing he did, he put in his time.” “He did do a terrible thing,” the detective says. “I’ve never met anyone who had over thirty overdue library books before.” I grab a tissue from the box on the table and dab at my eyes. “I mean, two or three, yes, I can see how that could happen. Over ten would be bad enough. But over thirty?” “I know.” He sighs. “It’s the sort of thing you only see once in a lifetime as a cop, and you hope to never see it again.”