After My Husband P*ssed, I Started Seeing a Widower Who Would Never Let Me Visit His House. My Son Said He Was After Dad’s Insurance Money. So I Drove to His Property Unannounced—and His Garage Door Was Wide Open…
My son was right that somebody was after Ray’s insurance money.
He was just wrong about who.
PART 1
My name is Nancy. I’m sixty-four, and I spent thirty-four years as an emergency-room nurse.
My husband, Ray, p*ssed away two years ago.
A stroke on a Tuesday, while he was watching the Rangers lose.
His brown recliner still sits by the living-room window, untouched.
I dust it.
I don’t sit in it.
Last summer, my neighbor Brenda talked me into a support group for widows and widowers.
Tuesday nights, in the basement of the Methodist church, with bad coffee and folding chairs.
That’s where I met Gene.
A quiet sixty-six-year-old widower, retired from electrical work.
