The Widower's Wife: A Thriller by Cate Holahan

comforter. Unicorns were pictured in the center. Angie loved My Little Pony . He’d bought the cover thinking it would help her feel at home in his new place, but she hadn’t flown out to see him since the move—though he’d visited twice.
    He ran his hand across the fabric, petting the blue-winged horse with the rainbow mane. The character was Angie’s favorite—or, more likely, her former favorite. She would be on to something new by now.
    His thigh pulsed with his heartbeat, despite the full extension. Ryan pulled the bad limb to his chest and pushed up hisbaggy sweatpants until he could inspect the damage. A dark circle, like a cigar burn only blacker, marked an area just above his knee. A long surgery scar trailed beside it, carving a white line down his tibia to another quarter-sized wound where the bullet had exited.
    He massaged the raised skin where the doctors had cut and sewn, feeling lonely and more than a bit sorry for himself. He hadn’t been the kind of cop that got shot. Most of the time, his work with the financial crimes unit had involved sitting behind a computer, hunting down identity thieves and money launderers by picking out irregularities in real estate records and tax filings. Half the time, he hadn’t even worn his gun.
    He should have worn it that day. Checking on a PO box that had been receiving a large number of credit cards just hadn’t seemed like a risky decision. Sure, the post office had been in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, but shootings in do-or-die Bed-Stuy were down 66 percent from the drug-fueled heyday that rappers flaunted on the radio. Gentrified Brooklyn didn’t do drive-bys.
    His partner, Vivienne, had wanted to come with him, but he’d had his fill of the women in his life by that point in the day. He and Leslie had argued the night before over some ridiculousness, and when he’d mentioned the fight to Vivienne, she’d said something cryptic about some wives pushing their husbands because they wanted a shove out the door. He’d told Vivienne that he didn’t need a partner to hold his hand while he opened a mailbox.
    The statistics hadn’t saved him that day. He’d been shot in the most unlikely manner possible: by a woman in broad daylight. Only 13 percent of women even had a firearm. But this twenty-eight-year-old girl with angry-looking acne had aimed a 9 mm Beretta at his torso and blown a hole in his leg. In her hyped up state, she’d mistaken him for a boyfriend that knew about her credit card scheme and wanted to steal her money.
    He kneaded the scar tissue, trying to soften its hard, ugly presence. He’d been unlucky, but there was no use sulking. He liked that his new job allowed him to set his own hours. Andinvestigating insurance claims was certainly safer than pissing off organized criminals. Most cases involved checking family health records and calling it a day. The Bacon case was different, though, more like his old life—the one with Leslie and Angie.
    Ryan glanced at his desktop computer. He should video call his daughter. At seven, Angie still wasn’t great at interacting over the phone for longer than a few minutes. But she’d be better if she could see him. He’d be better if he could see her.
    He returned to the desk and opened the Skype application on his computer. A short list of contacts appeared below a search window. Leslie’s picture smiled next to her name. Angie didn’t have her own account. The sight of his ex-wife kept him from clicking. He hadn’t forgiven her for ditching him when he needed her most. Maybe he never would.
    He let the cursor rest on the search box and typed a name. Luis Santos, Ana’s father. Dozens of people returned. Ryan scanned the listed hometowns for anyone in Brazil. There were plenty, though most of the photos belonged to men far too young to have fathered a thirty-one-year-old woman.
    He tried the search again with Ana’s mother’s name, Beatriz. The list was far shorter. Three names were