The Arrangement

by Kiersten Modglin

  “What the hell?” I moved even closer, looking the body over. He was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved navy blue shirt, now spattered with blood, but at his waist, he wore a tactical belt, a gun holster, and what appeared to be high-quality handcuffs. “Is this guy a cop, Ainsley?” I pointed, but she’d seen what I had.

  “I-I don’t-I didn’t—”

  “Is he?” I demanded. My heart was pounding so ferociously in my chest I could hear nothing else. My vision blurred at the edges as I looked back out at the driveway. He’d come in a red Toyota truck, not a cop car, but if he was off-duty that wouldn’t matter, would it? “Check his pockets…” She shook her head, unmoving. “We have to do it,” I said.

  “You do it, then.”

  I gritted my teeth, moving toward him cautiously. Though I knew it would be impossible, I kept waiting for him to reach out and grab my leg. I bent down, sticking my hand in his back pocket and pulling out a wallet. I opened it, staring at the photo ID long enough to catch his name and address: Stefan De Luca of 118 Roberts Drive. He hadn’t lived far from us. Just across town. I shuddered as the thought rolled over me. A flap of leather covered his cards, and when I flipped it over, I dropped the wallet. The golden badge shone up at us in the glare of the porch light.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit…” I paced the porch, pounding my hand into my forehead as I tried to think. “Fuck, Ainsley! What do we do? What did you do?”

  “Peter, I swear to you, I had no idea he was a cop. He didn’t tell me that. We didn’t talk about our careers. Maybe it’s a fake badge. I don’t know… We didn’t talk that much… I barely know him…” she trailed off, her voice breathy and shaking. “What do we do?” She was trembling, both her body and her voice, and when I turned to face her, she wouldn’t meet my eyes. She kept staring at the body in horror. I couldn’t bring myself to look as my stomach continued to rumble.

  “We can’t call the police and tell them I killed a cop, Ainsley. There’s no way I’m getting off after that. We have to get rid of the body,” I told her in a moment of stunning clarity. “It’s all there is to do. We have to make it look like he was never here, and then we pretend like this night never happened.”

  “How can you say that? How can we possibly do that? We don’t know the first thing about cleaning up a dead body.”

  “We’re going to have to figure it out,” I said. “It’s our only choice.”

  “But…”

  “Come on,” I begged her, “please. We have to get rid of the body and his truck. It’s the only way.”

  “It’s tampering with evidence—”

  “It’s fucking murder, Ainsley. We can’t chance it. We can do this, okay? We can clean it up. We can fix this. You’re always saying you’re the fixer, right? So you have to fix this, babe. You have to.” I watched as she contemplated what I was saying, hoping and praying she’d agree with me. We couldn’t call the cops. It was too much of a risk. To my relief, when she looked up at me again, she nodded, wiping her hair out of her face as she accepted the assignment. She breathed out a heavy breath from her O-shaped lips. “You’re right. It’s…it’s the only way. Let me think for a minute.”

  I paced the porch, watching her as she tapped her fingers on her lips, formulating a plan I wasn’t yet allowed to know. After a few moments, a familiar look filled her face. She’d figured it out. Everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AINSLEY

  We’d debated back and forth about where to put the body—try and find some place to dump it, bury it in the backyard, bury it in the woods, take Stefan’s truck and leave it somewhere with the body inside—but in the end, we decided leaving the house was too much of a risk.

  I’d had Peter remove a piece of the lattice board that framed our elevated, wraparound porch and crawled underneath. It hadn’t been easy, the crawl space was maybe three feet tall, so getting the shovel under the porch and using it to dig a hole several feet under the ground was grueling and time-consuming. Once he had the body under the porch, I’d taken Stefan’s cell phone, loaded up into his truck, and driven across town while my phone remained at home. I pulled into the airport and dropped it off without paying for a spot. Next, I turned off his phone, wiped it clean of my prints, and tucked it under the seat. Once Peter had the body, wallet, and gun buried, he met me at the airport, picked me up at our agreed upon location, and we drove home in silence. I didn’t ask him what he’d done or how it had gone. I simply sat with my terrified thoughts and worried about what would happen to us. Though Peter had been the murderer, I was now an accomplice. I’d hidden evidence. I’d broken the law. If one of us went down, the other would, too. So, we just had to make sure neither of us did. That was the unspoken agreement—we were in this together.

  When we’d arrived at home, I’d come inside to wash myself up while he scrubbed the porch. I couldn’t get the blood out from under my fingernails no matter how hard I scrubbed. I continued to find flecks of red hidden in cracks and crevices of my skin and cuticles.

  After several minutes passed, Peter walked back into the bathroom, and I shut the water off, staring at the bucket in his hand. He smelled of pure bleach, his skin pale despite the dirt smears across his forehead and under his nose.

  I stared at him, my head feeling foggy and out of sorts. “Is it cleaned up?”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He couldn't speak, couldn’t look me in the eye. It was too awful. Too terrible, what we’d done. Now the body was buried, the blood from the porch had been cleaned up, and all that was left to get rid of was our clothes and any remaining evidence before the kids got home, which would be at literally any moment. As I stared at him, he walked across the bathroom floor and dumped the bucket of bleach into the tub. The liquid was tinged red, the yellow sponge in his hand an odd shade of orange.

  “Do you want to double check that he’s…deep enough?” he asked, his voice powerless.

  “No. I can’t bear to go out there again. I’ll just have to trust you. Take off your clothes,” I told him, holding out my hand. Without question, he did as he was instructed, stripping down and handing them over to me. He climbed in the shower, turning on the water as I pulled my own clothes off and gathered them up. I wrapped a robe around myself and hurried to the laundry room, where I dumped the clothes into the washer, turned it on the hottest setting, dumped in five times the stain remover than what was needed, added the remainder of the bleach, and turned it on. I closed the lid, listening to the water kick on. As it did, I rested my back against the washing machine, sinking down to the ground as the reality of what we’d done crashed into me, my adrenaline fading for the first time all night.

  My hands shook, but I squeezed them together, digging my fingernails into my palms. I needed to pull myself together. I couldn’t lose it. I shut my mind off, falling deeper into myself as I did when I meditated. Nothing else existed. Just me and the sound of my breathing. I felt my heart rate slow almost instantly, reopening my eyes with a sudden sense of calm. I sat, listening to the washing machine washing away the last bit of evidence of what we’d done.

  Minutes passed, hours maybe, before I heard the front door open, and I gasped. I stood up, dusting myself off and tightening the robe around my waist. I glanced at the washer once before rushing down the hall and toward the living room. As I went, I spotted another speck of blood under my thumbnail. I shoved my hands into the oversized pockets of the robe.

  “Mom!” Dylan cried, his voice carrying through the quiet house.

  “What is it?” I rushed toward him, my voice shrill and panicked. What had he seen? Had we missed something?

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” he asked, his dark brows knitted together.

  “Nothing’s the matter. What do you mean?” I asked, trying to stop my body from jittering as I reached him.

  “You look like you’re going to be sick. And what’s going on with the porch?”

  A weight dropped in my stomach. �
�What’s wrong with the porch?”

  “There’s a piece of the white stuff that goes on the bottom of it lying in the yard, for starters,” he said with a laugh. “And it smells like straight bleach out there.”

  I inhaled, my eyes darting between his. How could Peter have been so stupid not to put the lattice back? I put my hands on Dylan’s shoulders, and he looked at me as if I’d suddenly stood on my head, glancing down at my hands in pure horror. “Something is wrong, isn’t it? Did someone get hurt? Is it Dad? Is someone sick?”

  “Yes,” I answered, forming my thoughts as I spoke. “I’m sick… Just a bit of a stomach bug, but I got sick outside on the porch, and your father and I had to clean it up. I’m sorry if we worried you.”

  He looked me up and down, concern filling his expression. “Oh, that’s all? Well, are you going to be okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Why don’t you go on to your room? I don’t want to risk giving it to you or your brother or sister if I can avoid it.”

  He took a step away from me, but it was hesitant. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look very good.”

  “I’m fine,” I repeated, placing my hand on my stomach this time for good measure. “Just a bug I caught at work. You ate, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, taking another step away from me. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s taking a shower,” I told him. Just as I heard the bathroom door down the hall open, Peter’s heavy footsteps headed in our direction. “Honey, Dylan’s home.”

  “Hey, son!” he called, much too enthusiastically. I hoped I didn’t sound as guilty as he did.

  “Go on to your room, okay? I don’t want you to catch whatever this is.” I touched his shoulder again, dismissing him and watching as he disappeared down the dark hallway. Seconds later, Peter appeared, his face ashen and distressed.

  “What did you do with the clothes?” he asked.

  “They’re in the wash.”

  He nodded.

  I lowered my voice and stepped a bit closer. “I’m going to take my shower. You need to put the lattice back. You left it lying in the yard.”

  He cursed under his breath. “I was waiting to put it back until I gave you a chance to double-check that I’d done everything okay. Did Dylan notice?”

  “He’s the one who told me. Not only did he notice, but I’m sure Micah’s parents did too when they dropped him off. You could’ve at least set it back in place. You knew any of the kids could’ve come home at any moment. How could you be so stupid?”

  He stalked past me, refusing to argue, and slammed the front door behind him. I sighed, already amped up for a fight, but gave up, heading down the hall myself. I needed to wash away all evidence of our night. I needed to sink into the darkness again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  PETER

  It was my worst nightmare, living with what we’d done. I tossed and turned the entire night, replaying the evening’s events over and over in my head.

  The day had started out so normal; how had things gone so wrong? How would I ever sleep again knowing the evidence that I was a murderer was buried just outside? That anyone could find it at any time? Every night for the rest of my life, every single day, I’d be reminded that I was a killer. That I’d killed a man. That I’d killed a cop. That I’d killed a cop in front of my wife.

  She’d never forget it. She’d never unsee what I’d done. She must’ve hated me. How had I let us get here? Why had I ever let her go out with that monster? How would I ever be able to breathe again? How would we survive this?

  There was a time when I was sure my secret about the other women would destroy me, but this was so much worse. That was an eyelash stuck in the corner of my eye, mildly painful and obtrusive, annoying as all hell, but I could live with it. And I had. This…the fact that Ainsley had watched me become a monster before her very eyes, the fact that there was a dead body buried just outside our front door…it was a scalding hot poker to my insides, the scraping and pulling of all my muscles in opposite directions. It burned and stung and made it impossible to breathe, impossible to think of anything else.

  How would I continue living? The idea of going to work on Monday, of facing coworkers, facing my children, while I had no control over who might come snooping around, what wild animal might catch the scent on the wind and dig up the body… It was too much to bear. I couldn’t go to prison. I needed to be here for my kids. I needed to be here for my wife.

  I rolled over for the eightieth time, pulling the covers out from under my side. When I looked to Ainsley’s side of the bed, I jumped, sucking in a breath. She was lying there, awake, eyes open and staring straight at me. She had a determined look in her eyes I knew well.

  “You need to calm down,” she said softly, her tone firm.

  “How am I supposed to be calm right now?” I asked. “How are you calm?”

  “I’m not calm,” she said, “but I know that if we don’t at least seem calm, we’re going to get caught.”

  “What did you do with the…er, the bat?”

  “I bleached it. Tomorrow, I’ll take it with me on my way to work and drop it in a dumpster downtown.”

  “Do you think it’s okay to leave…him…where he is? Will he start to…stink or—”

  “We don’t have a choice right now,” she cut me off. “He’s there, and for all we know, that’s okay. You think he’s down deep enough, right? To hide the smell?”

  “How should I know?” I asked, my hands shaking again. “It’s not like I have any experience digging graves to know how deep the bodies should be buried.”

  “Did you bury him deeper than you buried Scout?”

  The kids' beloved German Shepard that had died two years ago. I swallowed at the thought. That day was painful. This day was unbearable.

  “I think so. Maybe. At least as deep. A few feet.”

  She sighed, displeased with my answer.

  “It’ll have to do for now.”

  “What will we tell the police if they come asking questions? What am I supposed to tell Gina about why I left the…er…the meeting?”

  Her eyes narrowed at me slightly. “Tell Gina, or Beckman, or anyone else that I got sick and needed you to come home. And why would the police come around asking questions here?”

  “Well, he was your date, wasn’t he? There’ve been conversations between you two. Won’t they come around and ask you how you knew him and if you’ve seen him recently?”

  “I used a fake identity on the app, Peter. That was the whole point.”

  I scoffed. How did she seem so calm? It was driving me crazy. I kept seeing flashes of the blood, wondering if we’d managed to wipe away every spot of evidence, and she looked like it was just another Friday night. “Yeah, but they’ll be able to find you still, right? You said he used your real name on the app, so he obviously knew who you were. Like you said, maybe you slipped up, but he had our address either way. And the police will have your IP address or whatever. They’ll connect the dots back to you.”

  “He only used my name once, and not even my last name. However he figured out who I was, surely he covered his tracks, right? I don’t think cops can just stalk people for no reason. Besides, the app’s privacy guarantee is super strict. They don’t store IP addresses or anything aside from what you put on your profile. Remember? They were the ones who got in all that trouble last year because the police were trying to investigate a girl who was attacked and the company had no information on whom she’d gone on dates with other than his profile, which was obviously fake. It was all over the news. They guarantee privacy, and they stood by that in court. I mean, it was awful, but it’s part of the reason I chose that app for us to use. I didn’t want anyone to be able to find us. Those computer geniuses…they could probably track us down if they wanted to. I didn’t want to chance it. You don’t remember hearing about that case?”

  “What?” I asked, feeling a strange mixture of shock and disgust. “I mean, of
course I remember hearing about it, but I didn’t remember the name of the app. Why would you ever want to use it? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

  “Well, you should be glad I did because it may be the only thing standing in the way of you going to prison.” My face fell as I stared into her hardened expression. After a moment, it softened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just stressed out.”

  “I am too,” I whispered, rubbing my hands over her arms. “Trust me, I am. I’m so sorry I put us in this situation.”

  “You were trying to protect us,” she said softly, but I sensed the disappointment in her tone.

  “I’m still sorry. If it comes down to it, you know I’ll take the blame.” I reached for her hand, taking her fingers in mine and rubbing them between my thumb and fingers.

  “It’s both of our faults. I should’ve never suggested we see other people. This whole thing was my idea. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.” She said it plainly, leaving no room for negotiation, but I could sense the vulnerability there.

  “Don’t say that. None of this is your fault. He was a bad man who wanted to hurt you. He must’ve looked into you. Like you said, he’d been stalking you. Harassing you. Messaging you all the time. He showed up at our house… That was all on him.”

  “What do you think he wanted?” she asked, dropping her head a bit and tucking her chin to her chest. “Why do you think he wouldn’t leave me alone? Do you think he was planning to hurt me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, resisting the sudden urge to pull her to my chest and comfort her. “He said he wanted to see you. He threatened me. He said if I didn’t put my bat away someone was going to get hurt and, when you opened the door, he was going to grab you… I knew he had the gun. He could’ve held you hostage. I just…I snapped. I couldn’t let him hurt you. Why else would he have brought his weapon and handcuffs? It doesn’t make any sense.”