Chapter 1

My husband means well. He always tries his best.

But eighteen years working behind a laptop suited him for a very specific vocation. Anytime away from the computer, anytime when he attempts to be useful outside a screen—generally ends with more questions than solutions.

That's why he killed died.

Now, candidly, it's not my fault.

I did not make him put a ladder up against our two-story home in the evening after a day of frost when things had started to get slippery. Yes, I asked him if he could clean the leaves out of the gutter. And yes, he said he'd do it.

After the fifth ask, I was, in fact, a little frustrated that the aforementioned task hadn't been done.

Now, my husband and I support each other. We both help do things around the house in our own ways. I'm not a nagging wife. I didn't do anything wrong. I'd have been up on that ladder if I didn't have a thousand other things to do before the day ended.

The last time I asked was, in truth, maybe not the most gracious way I could have reminded him of the request. But it wasn't unkind; it was just to the point, with a hint of sharpness related to my annoyance at having to remind him again.

Sure, he was doing some work on the computer. But it was toward the end of the day, and he always seemed to have some work to do. And we had plans the following day with having friends over. I wanted the house to be nice.

The day had already been rather long, so technically he didn't have to do it right then. He had all the following day, but candidly, we both knew that it'd be better if he did it right then, in fact.

I didn't say no to his flustered acknowledgement of the request and huffy breath as he stomped toward the front door.

But again, I didn't make him.

Maybe a thought crossed my mind about clarifying whether he'd set the I was frustrated and flustered and in a hurry. And besides, a grown man of 35 doesn't need to be told to get up on a roof.

The bang of the ladder against the house, the doors not quite slammed but strongly shut, the additional sighing and through-the-nose breathing while putting on his boots—they weren't exactly quiet signals. I knew his feelings; we'd been together since we were twenty-one, after all. Still, I'm not in charge of his decisions.

Maybe it was the mist on the ladder, an incorrectly placed foot, or a moth floating past. Like I said, computers are his specialty. Everything else is a bonus.

It was almost sunset.

I was attempting to ignore him as I tried to finish getting the house ready for guests; acquaintances and maybe someday friends, but in the category of "hope to impress and not screw it up" type of connection. Friendship? Maybe, possibly. Yes, the house was old. Yes it was a fixer upper that we'd been working on for half a dozen years. It wasn't the house we wanted, but it was the house we had, and I'd given it my all to get it into a straight of presentability.

Things were about cleaned up inside, and I was going to blow off the front porch. I halfway had my own boots on when I heard the scream. Followed by the ladder clacking against the window. Followed by a quick yell, followed by a thump.

It happened so fast. It felt cartoonish. I waited for him to stand up and wave through the window.

My breath stopped.

I stumbled out of the house, one boot on, one wool sock feeling the wet cold of the grass.

The cat might escape. I didn't care.

His body was wrong. You didn't need a medical background to know that. A head isn't designed to twist under the shoulder blades. I let out a whimper, gasped, and clasped a hand over my face. I stood, leaning against a tree, and took it in.

I started to stumble over to him. But then I stopped. We had movie tickets for a Saturday night. A new Jane Austen. Not his favorite in the world, but he was a fan of Emma. It was a new one. He was excited to see it. Me too.

I looked at the body. I needed to help.

But there was no need. Again, didn't need a doctor to point that out.

I should have gone with that feeling and waited longer, even an hour. Then it would have been so much better.

Still, how could I have known? I turned, ran back in out of instinct, and dialed for help.

Then I heard the floorboards in the hallway, coming from our bedroom.

Our cat had a little extra to love on him. Maybe the sound came from the little footsteps. Maybe. It was an old house after all, that could be anything causing it to creak.

It was twilight, past sunset.

My husband stared at me from the entrance to the kitchen. I stared back at him. I turned back to look out into the front yard. The dead, twisted body still lay there. I looked back at him.

There were two differences. The head, of course; atop the body where you'd expect it. And he wasn't wearing any clothes.

I stifled a macabre laugh.