Page 84 of Best Offer Wins
“The neighbor who supplied this footage has helped us confirm that the two other cars belong to residents of Stonebrook Avenue,” the chief continues. “This vehicle is theonlyone whose owner we have not yet identified, and indeed, it is the only one with a DC tag, not a Maryland one. We believe that whoever was driving it was transporting our homicide victim.”
“Jesus Christ,” says Ian. “Can you believe this is happening?”
I wave him off, eager to hear whatever the chief is about to divulge next.
“This car became even more interesting to law enforcement earlier this afternoon,” she says, “when we were made aware of a second scene—one that we believe is also connected to this crime.”
A murmuring rises from the audience, then quickly hushes. My heart bangs against my ribs.
“It is premature for me to say anything more about this second location, other than to share that we have footage of an unidentified red Volkswagen hatchback there as well. What you’re about to see was captured by a CCTV camera operated by DC’s Metropolitan Police Department. We are confident this is the same vehicle that appears in the Stonebrook Avenue footage.”
The shot zooms out again, then refocuses on the flatscreen hung behind the chief. Someone cues up the new video. This footage is grainier and taken from farther away. But it’s clear enough that I hear glass shattering against faux-wood floorboards in the kitchen, startling Fritter awake next to me.
Ian has dropped his bottle of IPA.
“This was taken at ten fourteen Sunday evening, in the 800 block of B Street Southeast, in the Capitol Hill section of the District of Columbia,” the chief narrates. “Watch closely, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Here comes the red hatchback now… and just here, you’ll see it pull into a parking spot.”
Once Natalie’s car comes to a stop, the video pauses and jumps ahead a few frames. Now the driver’s-side door is opening andsomeone is getting out. The footage halts again, then cuts to a still frame that’s been magnified several times.
A close-up of a woman exiting the car fills the screen. Her face is obscured by the graininess of the recording, plus a KN-95 mask. She wears black leggings—thanks to the shitty quality of the footage, they almost pass as real leather—and a black hoodie pulled over her head, a chunk of light hair protruding from one side.
The effect is exhilarating.
“Please take a close look at the person of interest on the screen,” the chief instructs. “This appears to be a female of average height—five-four, five-five, somewhere in that range—with blond hair and a slender build.”
Slender!
Now the recording jumps to another magnified image.
“In this frame, you can see the same individual removing a large black suitcase from the rear of the vehicle. It appears to be similar or identical to the one we recovered from the basement of 5423 Stonebrook Avenue yesterday afternoon,” the chief says. “Both we and our partners within the Metropolitan Police Department are asking for the public’s help in identifying this person.” The flatscreen cuts from the shot of me, to an 800 number. “If you think you have any information at all about this vehicle or its driver, we are asking you to call this tip line immediately,” says the chief. “I can take a few questions now.”
I peek up at Ian. He grips the edge of the sink to keep himself upright, all the color drained from his complexion.
“Margo,” he whispers, “what the fuck is going on?”
35
Before I go any further, you should know one thing: If I’d had a choice, I would’ve killed Ian. As a feminist, it’s important to me that you understand that. I blame him. I hate him. But it would’ve been impossible to cover those tracks. And I can’t qualify for the mortgage on a $1.3 million house without him.
Plus, there’s no way he would’ve fit inside Natalie’s suitcase.
Alex lived in the nicest part of Capitol Hill, with historic brick sidewalks and handsome nineteenth-century architecture. Comparatively, her apartment building was a dump (and crucially, not the kind of place that has a doorman or a front desk). Still, the rent for a studio in that neighborhood should’ve been well out of reach for a clipboard girl at an environmental nonprofit. Her family must have money, though I can’t say for sure. It’s not like I could’ve Googled her and risked leaving more of a digital trail. It was easier, anyway, knowing almost nothing about her, aside from the fact that she was fucking my husband.
As I rounded the corner onto her block Sunday night, the asphalt, slick from the early-evening rain, reflected the orange glow of the street lamps. I slipped into the open parking space a few row houses away from her building, then double-checked that mymask and gloves were secure, that enough of the blond wig—the same one I wore at celebrity karaoke night all those years ago—was visible. I collected the suitcase from the back and looked quickly in both directions to confirm I was alone. Of course I was nervous. To keep myself focused and tamp down the fear, I repeated the steps of the plan over and over in my head. Not so different, really, from preparing for an important client pitch.
I wheeled the suitcase down the sidewalk, then up the ramp to the building’s front entrance. At the intercom, I fished the digital recorder from my reporter days—ancient, but still in fine working order—out of my crossbody bag and punched in the digits for unit 201. I shook with adrenaline as the speaker crackled to life.
“Hello?”
Her voice sounded younger than I expected. There was an uncomfortable pinch in my stomach. Like I said, I really do blame Ian for this whole mess, but my hands were tied.
“Hello?” Alex said again, after I’d hesitated. “Is someone there?”
I held my recorder up to the intercom and pressed play: “Babe? It’s me. Let me in.”
Ian’s voice. From earlier that day, when I’d locked him out of the apartment.
“Oh!” She sounded delighted. “Okay, just a minute!”
