Page 86 of Best Offer Wins
“Just what every wife wants to hear.” I get up and join him in the kitchen. He staggers away from me, as I reach past him to fill a glass of water at the faucet. “You need to trust me, Ian. As long as those burners are the only thing connecting you two, the police won’t even know to look in your direction.”
“But what about Jack and Curt?” he says. “Think about it—after everything we did to them? Don’t you think they’ll point to us?”
I laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“How are you so sure?” His head tilts the way Fritter’s does when he’s trying to work out what I’m saying.
“Because,” I help him along, “they needsomeoneto buy their house. Once everyone else drops out, we’ll be their only option. If they turned us in, they’d be sending their only buyers to prison. They’d be stuck there forever.”
Ian’s jaw goes slack, the fight in his eyes deadens.
“This could end my career,” he whispers, mostly to himself, I think. “It would be better…” He stares at the floor, nodding rapidly. “Yeah, I think it would be better if we cooperated…”
Jesus fucking Christ, I really do have to do all the critical thinking around here. I punch him in the biceps to snap him out of it. He looks up at me, stunned, eyes watering.
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Margo… I’m… I’m not like you. I can’t live with this.”
I let out a long, exhausted sigh, then spin away from him, heading for the bathroom. Fritter hops off the sofa and trots after me. There, I dig behind the cleaning products and cotton balls and extra toilet-paper rolls, back behind the drainpipe underneath the sink, until I reach the First Response box. I pull out the test, still declaring my happy news in the form of two bright-pink lines.
Holding it out in my flattened palm, I return to the kitchen and present it to Ian.
In an instant, aBelow Deckepisode’s worth of drama plays out across his face. His brow scrunches in confusion as he studies the stick, then stretches back out in horror. But when he lifts his gaze to meet mine, I see it—just a flicker, but undeniable.Joy.
“Is that…” he stammers. “Are you really…”
“Do you want to be in jail for the birth of your child?” I ask, my eyes locked into his. “Or, worse, you want me to give birth in a prison cell? You want our baby ripped away from us, her life destroyed before it can even start?”
Tears pour out of him now. Sloppy, silent blobs rolling in fast succession down his cheeks. Good boy.
Before either of us can speak again, his phone—the legit one—dings from the kitchen counter. Mine chimes from the coffee table at the same time.
He peers down. “It’s my mom,” he says weakly.
“What does she want?”
His voice shakes as he reads her text aloud: “Hi, kids, I’ve beenhearing about the Bethesda Basement Body. Isn’t that where you’re house hunting? I thought it was supposed to be safer there.”
“Keep it short,” I instruct him. “‘Yes, it’s awful,’ whatever. Nothing too emotional.”
He nods, his face ashen. Then he lurches toward the sink and pukes up his turkey sandwich.
37
Ian spent the night on the couch. Notice I didn’t say he slept. I could hear him crying off and on through the bedroom door until dawn. It was reassuring to know he was still there, and not out doing something stupid. I was up anyway, reading through the theories and hot takes swirling around online. I’m finding all of it pretty delicious.
The internet sleuths have really outdone themselves, picking over every shred they can find about the owners of 5423 Stonebrook Avenue. They’ve taken an especially frenzied interest in Curt—an altogether delightful little wrinkle that I admit I didn’t see coming. Right away, they found Dottie’s review of his book. Amazon has since deleted it, but the screenshot ofDO NOT TRUST CURTIS BRADSHAWhas been retweeted more than half a million times. I hope Dottie’s enjoying that as much as I am. It’s a cornerstone of one of the most popular theories on Reddit: that a defrauded investor from Curt’s hedge-fund days dumped the body in his house as a warning.
Of course, now that they’ve identified the victim, a new theory—the one that I designed—should come together fairly easily.
Police from both Montgomery County and DC made it officialat a joint press conference this morning: The remains in the suitcase belonged to Alexandra Stapleton. She was twenty-three years old. Alex to family and friends. A recent DC transplant. A passionate environmental studies major at the University of Vermont. Beloved daughter and sister. Blah, blah, fucking blah. The only part that really matters is she looks like Lyla Garrity fromFriday Night Lightsin the photos now looping on every channel. And there’s nothing the media loves more than a beautiful young white woman who’s met a violent end.
Chad Benson, News 4, is probably concealing a raging boner behind those pleat-front khakis when the anchor tosses to him from the studio. He’s no longer cemented in front of the dream home. He’s on Capitol Hill now, in front of Alex’s building. I turn up the volume and lean in from the sofa.
He’s recapping more of what we learned from the joint press conference—that one of Alex’s neighbors called 911 after noticing her door ajar, that police connected the apartment to the body based on photos found inside. But I’m distracted by the pile of flowers and stuffed animals visible just over Chad’s shoulder, a memorial to Alex that’s already on the verge of overtaking the front steps. The way this is playing out, the Bethesda Basement Body is on track to become a far bigger story than the Murder Mansion ever was.
Chad’s going over the details of a candlelight vigil planned for tonight, when my phone rings beside me. It’s Derrick.
