How to Be the Perfect Widow

Calla's POV

On the night of Reeve’s birthday, I drove to his family’s coastal estate with a premium ribeye and a bottle of Pinot Noir, ready to give him a romantic surprise.

But the rug was shifted three inches, and a single drop of dark blood hid in the floorboards. Before I could run, a gun barrel pressed against the back of my head.

The man was impeccably dressed and terrifyingly calm. Upstairs in my bathtub lay the corpse of his pregnant wife.

He ordered me to help him dispose of the body and cover up the crime. My only thought was to stall until my husband got home.

That is, until he spoke—and revealed the root of this massacre. Everything was my husband's fault.

I pushed open the heavy oak door and tossed my car keys onto the entryway console.

The house was dead silent, save for the ocean breeze whistling through an improperly latched window, rattling the blinds.

"Reeve?" I called out, not really expecting an answer.

Today was his thirty-second birthday. The rising-star obstetrician was flown out to Monterey for an emergency medical symposium, so he decided to crash at his grandparents' old beach house—just a fifteen-minute drive from the venue. Before leaving, he forwarded me his itinerary: 2:00 PM to 6:00 PM, closed-door round-table discussion, absolutely no electronics allowed.

Plenty of time to set up the perfect surprise.

Walking down the hall into the master bedroom, I immediately spotted something on the nightstand.

A vibrant, pink silk nightgown, tags still attached. Next to it lay the newest shade of a designer lipstick called "Delphine."

I raised an eyebrow. As a forensic pathologist who spends her days with cold corpses, my wardrobe consisted exclusively of black and gray. Reeve must have thought this "feminine" gift would win me over. The occasionally clumsy aesthetics of straight men—forgivable.

My watch read 4:00 PM. Still enough time to hit the Whole Foods a few blocks away to grab his favorites: ribeye, truffle oil, and Pinot Noir.

Forty minutes later, I returned to the house with two heavy brown paper grocery bags, kicking the front door shut with my heel.

Something was wrong.

The Persian rug in the entryway had shifted about three inches to the left. When I left, its edge perfectly covered a dark scuff on the hardwood floor; now, the defect was completely hidden.

"Reeve?" I called out again.

I knew it was impossible. It was 4:40 PM. His round-table was only halfway done, and his phone was in forced-silent mode.

Silence.

I walked down the hall, dropping the grocery bags onto the kitchen's marble island. There was a new scent in the air. Very faint. A normal person might mistake it for the smell of the ocean, or leftover cleaning supplies. But I knew it too well: beneath the sharp sting of bleach, there was the unmistakable copper tang of rust.

Stop overthinking, Calla, I muttered to myself. You've been looking at too many bodies on the autopsy table.

I took a deep breath, pulled a tomato from the bag, walked to the sink, and turned on the faucet.

Drip—

The sound didn't come from the sink.

I whipped my head around. On the oak floorboards nearby, there was a smeared shoeprint where bleach had been hastily wiped. But under the glare of the overhead light, a single drop of dark, viscous red liquid remained trapped in the seam of the wood.

Then came a faint thump from the guestroom upstairs.

It sounded like a heavy, lifeless body slamming against a door panel.

The blood instantly drained from my face.

My forensic instincts forced me into total composure within three seconds. Reeve was stuck in a conference room right now.

Meaning the person upstairs wasn't my husband.

I turned off the faucet, feigning utter calm.

"God, it is stuffy in here," I pitched my voice up, playing the role of the annoyed, oblivious wife. "Damn old house. The AC must be busted again."

Turning around, my heels clicked steadily across the floor as I walked toward the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows.

The moment my fingers brushed the drapes, my pupils contracted.

Hidden behind the curtain, sitting perfectly still on the windowsill, was a used syringe. The clear barrel contained half a vial of murky fluid—an eerie, blood-tinged pink. A single drop of half-coagulated crimson hung from the needle, sliding agonizingly down the cold stainless steel.

The faint squeak of a floorboard echoed from the top of the stairs.

I whipped my hand back, spun toward the empty kitchen, and plastered on a look of sheer frustration.

"I am losing my mind!" I smacked my forehead, raising my voice with exaggerated domestic panic. "I forgot the damn blue cheese! If Reeve doesn't get blue cheese with his steak, he will literally lose it."

The friction sounds on the stairs paused.

"I better run back to the store before he gets home," I grumbled loudly, power-walking to the entryway and reaching for the keys on the console.

Just as my fingertips brushed the cold metal keychain, I grabbed the doorknob, ready to yank it open—

A pale, meticulously manicured man's hand shot out from behind me, slamming against the door with a sharp smack.

A split second later, the icy, circular barrel of a gun was jammed forcefully into the back of my skull.