Natalie settles in on the opposite side, folding her legs onto the cushion and turning toward me. “So,” she fixes me in a ravenous gaze, “I’m dying to know, what tipped you off?”
I’m not about to give her the satisfaction of knowing the real story, so I’ve crafted a much lamer one.
“His DMs. What else?” I laugh dryly. “His laptop was open to his Instagram messages when I got back from the open house yesterday. Which seemed weird, since as far as I know, he’s hardly ever on Insta.” I pretend to compose myself. “He was in the shower, so I had a minute to scroll through. Turns out he’s been messaging a ton with some woman from his law school class. I didn’t have time to read all of it, but it’s flirty—a lot of joking about how they used to hook up at UVA…” I take another pause. “Sorry, it’s hard to talk about.”
Natalie narrows her eyes, struggling to hide her disappointment.
“Okay,” she says, “what else did you find?”
“That’s it. That’s all I had time for.”
“So, not even a dick pic? Or any evidence they’ve met up in person?”
“Well, no… Ugh, I can’t even imagine Ian sending a dick pic.”
Predictably, her face lights up at a chance to twist the knife.
“Oh, trust me, girl, they all send them,especiallythe bored husbands. Literally no one is more obsessed with documenting their dicks—snoop a little more in those DMs, I bet you find aNational Geographic’s worth of erections.”
“Jesus, Nat.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m only trying to help,” she continues, downinganother gulp of wine. “Take it from me, the sooner you realize marriage is a sham, the sooner you can have a real life.”
Ah yes, the very fulfilling existence that only fuckboys from Tinder can provide.
“It’s a little more complicated than that, given—you know.” I nod down at my belly.
“Oh shit, yeah, I totally keep forgetting you’re pregnant,” she says, and I feel the inferno spreading through my veins. “Well, that’s even more of a reason to figure this out now. Ian’s only gonna get worse once the baby’s here and you’re even less interested in fucking him.”
I imagine lunging across this tacky couch and clawing my nails across her face. Instead, I run them through Fritter’s wiry fur and remind myself that I only have to play nice for a little while longer.
“Do you mind if we just pick a movie?” I ask, eyes pleading. “I could really use a break from all this drama.”
“Oh my God, of course, sweetie.” Natalie unfurls herself from the sofa and heads back into the kitchen with her empty glass. “Whenever you’re ready to talk more, just know I’m here.” She holds my gaze, turning down the corners of her mouth in fake sympathy.
Mercifully, we’re less than an hour intoBad Momswhen her eyelids begin to droop. You’d think a bartender would be smarter about pacing herself, but she’s already finished the wine. Once she dozes off, I creep back into the kitchen and pull the latex gloves from my crossbody bag.
The heavy silver wrench is still in the toolbox beneath the sink, right where I found it yesterday.
31
A fog has rolled in, making the night seem blacker than normal. I cut my headlights as soon as I turn onto Stonebrook Avenue. At nearly eleven thirty on a Sunday, I’m not surprised to find the street quiet and still, the houses dark.
I pull up in front of the dream home, about where Jack’s Audi was parked that first day here, when he nearly saw me sneaking out of his backyard. Where would I be now if he’d caught me that morning? If my timing had been off by only a split second? It’s funny how fate works. And that’s what this is—what ithasbeen, all of it, all along. Fate.
The brass porch lanterns are on, and though the curtains are drawn, I know that nobody’s inside. The afternoon of the open house, when I slipped through the side gate and down to the basement to make sure the latch on the Dutch door hadn’t been fixed, I overheard one of the agents on the patio talking to his clients. He said the sellers were out of town until Monday, on the Eastern Shore somewhere, so they wouldn’t interfere with everyone touring the place and doing their home inspections over the weekend. And just like that, the biggest risk of this whole operation disintegrated. See what I mean about fate? It’s like the housewantsme to do this, like it’s in on the plan.
Perfect house. Perfect baby. Perfect dog.
I check all the mirrors before getting out of the car, reconfirming that the street is deserted behind me. I close the driver’s-side door as softly as I can—hood up, latex gloves on, KN-95 mask over my face—and move quickly to the rear, unlocking the hatch. After wriggling the suitcase all the way to the edge, I pull it free with one final yank, its wheels hitting the pavement with a smack that echoes down the block. I freeze, waiting for a dog to bark or someone’s lights to come on. A jolt of adrenaline brings every rustling leaf, every beat of my own heart, into sharp, surreal focus.
The houses stay silent and dark.
I tug the suitcase over the curb and onto the sidewalk. I’ll have to wheel it up the flagstone path that leads to the front door, then hang a right just before the porch, onto an offshoot path that’ll take me through the side gate to the backyard. It’s not a long way, but I’m already pretty sore from earlier.
Clutching the handle with both hands, my back to the house, my masked face watching the street, I pull the suitcase from the front. Its wheels rumble slowly over the smooth stone, just loudly enough to keep my eyes shifting manically from side to side. When I reach the turnoff, I switch my grip and face forward, towing it from behind.
I’m almost there, only a couple feet from the gate, when I see headlights slicing through the mist.
