The rain is full-on torrential now. A homeless woman scurries with a shopping cart beneath the awning of our building’s entrance. Wonder how long till the front-desk guy forces her to move. As I watch a few other unlucky pedestrians leap around the dirty puddles forming on the sidewalk, an alarming thought enters my mind. What if somehow theynevernotice the suitcase? What if the movers come and pack it up along with everything else down in that basement, and blindly stick it on some ship headed across the ocean?
What if all of this is for nothing?
I could drive myself bananas imagining the various worst-case scenarios while I wait to hear from Derrick. So, as a fun little distraction, I’ll let you in on some local history: the true, tragic tale of the DC Murder Mansion. It had been ages since I’d thought about it, but after Erika brought it up at lunch the other day, the details started trickling back.
The whole thing began on a bone-chilling February night seven years ago, with a teenage girl returning to her family’s sprawling, French-style chateau in Wesley Heights, the ultra-wealthy DC enclave where Erika and Heath live now. The girl had been at a high-school basketball game, and because it was so cold outside, her dad had reminded her to park her Jeep in the garage when she got home, not in the driveway like usual. Presumably, he thoughthe was being considerate. But if the girl had parked outside, she would’ve tried to go in through the front door. And if she’d done that, she would’ve seen that it was wide open. She would’ve seen the blood smeared all over the foyer. She would’ve called 911 from the porch, or maybe from a neighbor’s house. The police would’ve shown up in a nanosecond, given the neighborhood, and made the grisly discovery for her.
Instead, she pulled into the garage just like she’d been told and entered through a mudroom. She took off her shoes, hung up her coat, then went into the kitchen—the one designed by Zoe Estelle—and made herself a snack.
This is the problem, it turns out, with a five-thousand-square-foot house. You can wander around for a full twenty minutes before discovering that both your parents have bled out on an antique Persian rug in the formal living room.
They’d been shot to death in what police said was a random home invasion—likely a botched robbery attempt. The killer had gunned them down at the front door, but they’d somehow both managed to crawl several yards away to die.
People couldn’t get enough of the story. The breathtaking violence of it. What those final few moments must’ve been like. The profiles of the victims, both prominent attorneys. The fact that it had happened in a “safe” (rich, white) neighborhood.
At some point, everyone started calling the house the Murder Mansion.
The market back then, in 2015, was nearly as hot as it is now. No half-decent place in a neighborhood as nice as Wesley Heights would’ve normally lasted more than a week without finding a buyer. Especially not one with a newly remodeled kitchen. But when the investigation wrapped and the dead couple’s estate listed the house for sale, it wouldn’t budge. Not a single person wanted to live there.
Eventually, a developer swooped in and practically stole it. He tore it down and packed three new houses onto the lot, all of which sold faster than Beyoncé tickets. The police never caught the killer, but my money is on that developer. Maybe the robbery wasn’tbotchedafter all.
The narrative that I’m crafting around the dream home isn’t quite the same. For one thing, over my own dead body is anyone tearing it down. And for another, no one will have been murderedonthe property. I contemplated briefly how I might pull that off, but even if I could’ve figured it out, the complexity of securing and investigating the actual scene of the killing probably would’ve required Jack and Curt to take the house off the market.
I couldn’t have that, so a body dumped inside will have to be enough. You know, to scare away the competition.
Six twenty-five and Derrick is calling at last.
“Hey, Margo, hope you’re hanging in there.”
“I’m fine,” I say, hurrying him along. “What’s up?”
“Honestly… I’m not totally sure,” he begins slowly. “Do you wanna try patching in Ian?”
“No, no, his phone will still be off. Go ahead, I can fill him in later.”
“Okay, well, I just talked to Theresa, their agent, and she sounded pretty rattled.”
Something flutters inside me. I take a deep breath.
“It sounds like there’s been some sort of accident maybe. Or an emergency of some kind, at the house,” Derrick continues. “She really wasn’t clear. But for now, until they can tell us what’s going on, they’re holding off on picking an offer.”
Goosebumps erupt up and down my arms. This is it then. It’s really happening.
“Huh.” I hope Derrick can’t detect that my voice is quivering. “What, exactly, did she say?”
“Very little. Only that something had happened, and she wasn’t at liberty to share anything else.”
I keep pushing. “Think there was a break-in?” I need to seem curious.
“Potentially,” says Derrick cautiously, “but I really have no idea. Don’t you know the sellers? Maybe you could try them.”
“Maybe… though we haven’t really spoken since they reneged on their promise to look at our offer early.”
Derrick chuckles. “Business and friends aren’t a great mix.”
“So true.”
“All righty, well, you hang tight,” he says. “I’ll let you know the minute I hear back.”
