Page 88 of Best Offer Wins
The scene couldn’t have been pleasant when the police kicked in her door. Natalie had been in the tub for two days by then.
I’d gone upstairs that Monday morning, right after Ian left for Pittsburgh. I knew Natalie would still be on the couch, out cold from the five crushed-up Xanax that I’d mixed into the wine. Someone needed to let Fritter out.
After we got back from our walk, I dropped him off at my apartment, then returned to hers. When I shook Natalie by the shoulders, her eyelids barely opened. “Thirsty” was the first thing she said. So I fixed her a tall glass of watered-down vodka—and stirred in a spoonful of the powdered ketamine that I’d found in her medicine cabinet.
Once I was done running the bath, her eyes were closed again. She didn’t resist at all, draping a heavy arm around me, as I dragged her to the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. If she ever came to while I was holding her under, I didn’t notice.
A week or so after they found her body, the US attorney held a press conference laying out the prosecution’s theory of the crime.
Natalie, he said, was obsessed with Alexandra Stapleton. They’d had a fling, the evidence showed, and it appeared Natalie couldn’t let it go. Investigators found her DNA inside Alex’s apartment, including from hair in the shower drain and on a pair of underwear tangled at the foot of the bedsheets. A large wrench left just inside the front door came from a toolset belonging to Natalie. It matched the blunt force trauma to Alex’s skull.
Investigators pulled Natalie’s cell phone data, which confirmed she’d been at both locations the night of the murder. The fob to our building’s parking garage registered that she hadn’t returned home till after midnight.
As for her connection to the Bethesda basement, her phone also revealed that she’d been to the home for the open house and taken numerous photos of its interiors. Perhaps, the US attorney theorized, in the throes of a psychotic episode, Natalie had latched onto the idea of “living happily ever after there” with Alex.
“It appears she could not live with herself after taking MissStapleton’s life,” he concluded, “and so we are left with not one, but two grieving families. While my office is pleased to bring this case to such a speedy resolution, this is not the outcome any of us would have hoped for. I’d like to extend my deepest condolences to both families, and my heartfelt gratitude to our officers here in the District, as well as our law enforcement partners in Montgomery County, for their tireless work to get justice for Alexandra Stapleton.”
The public devoured every morsel of this, just as I knew they would. Two hot white women? A hookup so intense it ended in a murder-suicide? A B-plot about real estate? I mean, come the fuck on, I dare you to craft a more compelling narrative. The real tragedy here is that I won’t get a cut of the inevitable movie deal.
Naturally, it raised some eyebrows when Ian and I went under contract on the house—quite a coincidence that the buyers would’ve lived in the same apartment building as the killer. But I had an easy explanation when the police came over to question us about it. Through tears, I told them how guilty I felt about the whole thing. After all,I’dbeen the one to show Natalie the listing, I explained—been the one to put the idea in her head that it could be “the dream house,” the perfect place for a “happily ever after.” (Yep, the US attorney stole that line from me.) If only I’d never told her that Ian and I were planning to make an offer on it, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
“And then I just took her at her word when she said she was going out of town and needed me to take care of her dog,” I’d said, face snotty, Fritter at my feet. “I don’t remember if I even asked her how she was doing when she dropped him off.”
The detectives—there were two—both insisted I stop beating myself up. Natalie, they said, was very sick, and there was no one to blame but her.
When the toxicology report finally came back—revealing she’d overdosed on an impressively wide range of substances beforedrowning—it only got harder for anyone to defend her. While announcing the results, police shared that they’d found a supply of party drugs, including the ketamine, in her apartment, salacious new info that sent the internet sleuths back to work. They dug up Natalie’s divorce filings, a messy affair in which she accused her ex of repeatedly cheating, and he laid out how the woman he loved had spiraled out of control and broken his heart. His private investigator had observed Natalie getting high at clubs, and his lawyers had gotten an affidavit from her old boss confirming the Molly incident—which, of course, all made it easier for the online mob to believe she was unstable enough to be the Bethesda Basement killer.
It was strange, the commenters conceded, that the police never explained how Natalie and Alex met. Never detailed a dating app connection, or a text message history. Still, several pointed out, Alex was clearly a closet case, so maybe she’d been paranoid about leaving a digital trail.
Speaking of which, I got rid of those burners before we moved. I smashed them up and scattered them around—a few pieces into the Potomac River, some bits into public trash cans at opposite ends of town. It felt cathartic, like spreading the ashes of my old life. No one will ever find them, and let’s be honest, no one will ever look. Aside from a handful of internet obsessives, everyone is content with how quickly this wrapped up. The police aren’t about to reconsider a case with a mountain of evidence. They have enough to deal with, the way crime is skyrocketing in the city—every day there’s another shooting, and the homelessness problem is out of control. Whenever I watch the news, I feel more grateful to live here in the safety of the suburbs—away from all the craziness, away from all the danger.
And now with that drama behind us, I can finally focus on what really matters. I briefly considered switching the walls in here to a pale mint—something not so gender-specific—but after thismorning’s big reveal, the coral just feels meant to be. I think I like it even better when the sun gets lower, the way it turns a little more orange in this light.
“Fritter, come on, time to go out.”
My happy little muppet gets up from the floor of the empty nursery and follows me downstairs. Even though I’m hardly past the first trimester, the summer humidity already feels so much more oppressive than it used to. These sunset walks are about the only ones I can bear.
One perk of being pregnant, at least, is that everyone is nicer to me. Take Jordana. I wasn’t yet ready to tell people at work about the baby, but when she called me into her office a couple months ago, I sensed I might not have a choice. She’d barely gotten the words out—“Margo, we need to discuss your performance”—when I cut her off.
“There’s something I need to discuss, too,” I’d said cheerily. “I’m pregnant! Finally!”
Her face fell, as she presumably did the math: not great strategy for a woman CEO to fire an expectant mother, especially not one who’d have to explain to so many loyal clients that she’d gotten the ax mere seconds after sharing the happy news.
To her credit, Jordana recovered well. “That’s just wonderful,” she said, eyes wide. “Let’s talk about what the rest of the team can do to support you.”
Work is going a lot better these days anyway. I’m much more focused now that we’re properly settled in here. I find Fritter’s leash hanging from its hook in the coat closet (I have acoatcloset now!). He waits patiently while I snap on his harness, then slip on my Birkenstocks. We’re nearly through the front door when a faint buzzing stops me. I stand perfectly still, straining to detect its origins.
As I take deliberate steps back toward the closet, it grows louder. I’m getting warmer.
When I open the door, my gaze instantly falls on the source. Ian’s brown leather backpack, in a heap on the floor. I lift the front flap and reach inside. The tight lump of rage unfurls itself, pulsing to life, when I see what I’ve pulled out.
A crumpled-up Pret bag, something vibrating inside.
Down within the depths of the basement, a power saw screeches on. Fritter whines at the high-pitched sound. A familiar throbbing starts up again behind my eyes.
