Colin glanced at his new wife, and a slight blush crept up his neck before he reached over and pushed her long, blonde hair behind her shoulder. “It’s hard to say,” Colin gushed, unable to tear his gaze from his blushing bride. “We spent a lot of time together. I saw a different side of her.”
I have wondered myself how many different sides to Chloe Stark there are.
I’m a journalist, so naturally I spend a lot of time with the people I write stories about. I’m not proud to admit that sometimes my subjects don’t always enjoy my presence, but Chloe seemed to mostly tolerate me. She burst out a laugh when I suggested that, before agreeing thattoleratewas the right word to describe her feelings toward me.
I photographed her leaving the court room, her makeup slightly smudged after sitting through her mother’s sentencing hearing. I photographed her and her friends—The Terror Trio—laughing outside the local hotspot, Sip & Spin. I even photographed Chloe Stark running on the track at the local high school and visiting the coffee shop downtown. There was one time not too long ago that I resisted snapping a picture of her coming home covered in mud, which I regret, but she thanked me for.
I wrote entire articles on this woman’s coffee drinking habits, because the public was enthralled with her, as was I.
There’s just something about her that draws you in. Something that makes you feel safe, while at the same time making you feel a little bit on edge, like that sweet smile she always gives is hiding something deeper. Something darker.
When I asked Colin if he agreed with that assessment, he pursed his lips in thought. “She’s got sharp canines in that smile of hers,” he joked, perhaps referencing the wild animal skulls Chloe collects. She let me tour her basement full of skulls not too long ago, and I was again surprised at this side of Chloe I didn’t know existed.
In the face of everything she’s been through, she’s creative. She’s carefree. She’s loyal. She’s always happy—except when she’s not, Colin muttered pointedly.
I asked what her mother is planning to do with her newfound freedom, and Chloe said her mother picked up her black Suburban from their formerly shared home and hit the road for an extended cross country road trip. “She’s taking full advantage of her freedom. I hope she finds herself again in the world,” Chloe said.
“She forgave me before I even apologized,” Colin cut in, sounding a bit regretful about arresting her all that time ago. “She met my mother. She’s happy for us.” Chloe’s eyes softened as it became her turn to reach intoColin’s lap, squeezing his hand in hers. “She’s a good person, and I’m lucky to call her my mother-in-law.”
I suggested Widow-in-law. They both raised their eyebrows in a silent scold.
When I asked if the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Mills were planning a honeymoon, the overhead lights twinkled in their bright eyes, and I have to admit, it looked a little like they both had sharp teeth in those smiles of theirs.
There was a beat of silence in the room before Colin encouraged Chloe to share where they’d be honeymooning, to which Chloe squealed, “Cuba!”
Want to read about Chloe, Colin, and Caroline tracking Max to Cuba? Continue past Epilogue 2 to download the Baby Widow Bonus Chapter!
Epilogue 2
Micah
“Have you ever been to anadults-only summer camp?”
I use quotation marks around the words, but the man doesn’t notice.
The gurgling moan I get in response tells me I’m close to out of time with him, and I’ll probably never know if he’s been to summer camp or not.
“Me neither. Never even heard of it.” I tsk, turning from his hanging body. “Although, some might consider the group homes I grew up in perpetual summer camp in some ways.” I laugh dryly and I angle toward the man briefly, but he’s still just hanging there. “Jeez, man. I was joking.”Tough crowd.
In my mind, summer camp—even the adults-only version—is warm and happy. Buzzing with energy. Constant chaos and fun.
The group homes I ended up aging out of were nothing like that.
Constant chaos? Buzzing with the energy of a nitroglycerin mixture?Hell yes.
Warm, happy, and fun?Not a fucking chance.
“Well, sorry you never got a chance to go…” I turn to face the man, reaching for his wallet at the base of the tree near his limp body. “Logan Wheeler,” I muse, turning the ID over in my hand. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to go to camp in your next life, huh?”
I frisbee-flick the ID into the woods with my black, latex covered fingers. I really don’t care what happens to it.
A long line of red drool spills from the man’s mouth and toward the ground as his head hangs forward. Honestly, I’m surprised those nails held him up so well. I eye the dried blood crusted to the edges of his hand, remembering what a bitch it was to get him up there in the first place.
0/10, do not recommend. It was quite a clunky process.
Okay, maybe 5/10, because when my work here is complete, the final image will be glorious, I’m sure of it.
“But maybe in your next life, don’t be a sex trafficker, yeah?” I continue moving around him, organizing my supplies back into the duffel bag.
