The Arrangement

by Kiersten Modglin

  I supposed I must have looked angry, because he said the last sentence affirmatively, as if I needed to hear it. “Yes, of course. Thank you for coming.”

  “It’s our job, ma’am.”

  "I…I appreciate that," I said softly, still trying to process everything I was being told.

  “If you’ll wait in your car, then.” He gestured to the car, and I backed away from the officers, making my way back to the safety of my vehicle with a racing heart. Why hadn't they tried to call me? I glanced down at my phone, preparing to text them and noticed the missed call, one I hadn't seen come in as I was talking to Glennon. What if they'd been in real trouble? How had I let everything get so out of control? My branch and employees were my responsibility, and when they'd needed me most, I'd let them down. How could I have been so stupid?

  I pressed my fingers into my temples.

  Pull yourself together, Ainsley. You have to pull yourself together, or you're going to ruin everything.

  When I arrived home that afternoon, Peter was on the porch on his hands and knees, scrubbing the exterior wall of the house with a dirty washcloth, a bucket of brown water beside him. The mop was lying in front of the door.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Cleaning," he said, not looking up at me. He seemed almost manic. The walls appeared fine to me, but he was insistent, so I didn't argue.

  "Everything okay?"

  "Fine," he snipped. "You know, you could've told me that you told Glennon we were doing family pictures. Prepared me a little so I wouldn't be caught off guard when she showed up here this morning to help."

  My stomach flopped. "She did what?"

  He stopped scrubbing. "You didn't know?"

  "I had no idea. I told her not to come over. She wanted to spend time together, go for drinks or coffee or something, but I told her we were doing pictures to buy us time. I didn't expect her to come over." He looked at me, his lips pursed, as if that were ridiculous. "Did she stay long?"

  "She caught me in the middle of cleaning. I told her we were fine and didn't need help, and she left."

  "You weren't rude, were you?"

  "Ainsley, I'm literally washing blood," he lowered his voice to a whisper as he said the last word, "off our walls. I think I have more important things to worry about than hurting your friend's feelings."

  I groaned. "Whatever. I'll have to call her later and fix things. What did you tell her about pictures?"

  "That I didn't need help. That you were picking out the outfits."

  I nodded. "Fine. Do you need some help with this?"

  He looked away from me, back to his work. "I'm almost done. Did you take care of the…"

  "Yep, it's gone." I glanced around behind me, checking out the quiet drive to be sure no one was coming down it, feeling exposed, even in the privacy of our very secluded yard.

  "I was thinking… Maybe tonight we can move the…thing—" He cleared his throat. "To the woods. Somewhere far away from the house." He gestured toward the thick, dark woods surrounding us. We only owned about three acres, but were enveloped by over forty acres of hunting ground owned by various people. There were plenty of places to hide a body, but it was risky. Too risky.

  "Do you know how many hunting cameras are in these woods? What if we were caught?" I asked, watching as he continued to scrub the clean spot.

  "Well, then we’ll bury it in our portion. Where there are no cameras."

  "If they come looking, that's the first place they'll check. And I don’t want you digging the thing up. We have to leave it alone.”

  The body was no longer a he, but an it. We'd made that transition.

  Were there five steps to processing the fact that you’d committed a murder like there were for grief?

  Step 1. Cleaning up.

  Step 2. Detaching yourself from the victim by refusing to acknowledge they existed.

  Step 3. To be determined

  “Besides that,” I added, “returning to the scene of a crime is the worst thing we can do right now."

  “Ainsley, we live at the scene of the crime. We can’t just keep him there. I can handle it. I can find somewhere to put him—”

  “I said no. You’re going to get caugh—”

  "Mom?" a faint voice interrupted my sentence, calling from inside the house, and I realized Maisy was standing in the living room, hair wild, one eye squeezed shut. She yawned, catching my eye through the glass of the door.

  I opened it, putting on my best everything's fine smile. "Good morning, sleepy head."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Your dad's cleaning the porch. I just got home. Did you have fun last night? I didn't get a chance to talk to you very much after you got home."

  "It was homework, so it wasn’t fun." She laughed, then her eyes filled with concern. "Dylan said you were sick. Are you better now?"

  "Much. I think I ate something off at dinner."

  “Nicole's dad says there's a bad stomach bug going around right now. He said he's had sixteen different patients this week with it."

  "I don't think that's what I had. I'm feeling so much better already," I assured her, pleased to see the worry disappear. "Anyway, why don't you go on into the kitchen and get yourself some lunch, okay? I'll be inside in a second."

  "Okay," she said, rubbing her eyes as she released another yawn and sulked to the kitchen.

  "Do you think she heard us?" Peter asked, filling me with brand-new concern.

  I shook my head. "She couldn't have… Could she?"

  "Had she been standing there long?" As he asked, he stood up, dropped the sponge in the bucket, and dusted his hands on his pants.

  "I have no idea," I said, inhaling deeply through my nose. I couldn't think about it. I refused to. There was no way she'd heard, and even if she had, no way she'd understood what we were talking about. I stepped a foot inside the house, glancing back at him. "I'm going to change and fix myself some lunch. You should hurry up with this and join us." I met his eyes, my gaze stern. “And wipe that petrified look off your face.”

  Chapter Twenty

  PETER

  The rest of the day went smoothly, or as smoothly as could be expected. Ainsley made grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken soup for lunch, a fall favorite comfort food she made whenever any of the kids were sick. I wasn't sure if she was doing it to help further the narrative that she'd been sick the day before, or because what we both needed more than anything, was comfort. Either way, I was grateful for it.

  Things could go on. Normal things were still happening. I'd helped her load the dishwasher, despite the body buried under our porch. I'd played a video game with Riley, despite the way my fingers still burned from the over-exposure to bleach. I watched a sitcom with Maisy, despite my racing heart when the main couple hit a raccoon with their car and thought, for a split second, it had been a person. I’d helped fold and put away the laundry that had been splattered with blood the night before. I could be normal; I could do normal things.

  I picked up a novel after the kids had gone to their rooms, but my eyes glazed over the words. Refusing to put it down, I continued to stare at the words. At some point, I’d find a way to read them. All that mattered was that I was pulling it off. I could pretend to go through the motions, doing everything I needed to do, despite my mind being elsewhere. I was beginning to master it. Pretending to be a living, breathing person while I melted internally into an anxious mess.

  Ainsley had been watching me all afternoon, her cool gaze meeting mine intently across the room. I'd feel a chill run over me, the distinct knowing that someone was watching, look up, and there she was. There was something eerie about her level of calm. It didn't sit right with me. Had she shut down after what had happened? Was she calmer because she wasn't the murderer? I didn't know, but I wished I did.

  Ainsley picked up the remote from the arm of the couch, flipping through the channels. When I heard the voice of a familiar news anchor, I looked up. I'd purposefully been avoiding social
media and the news, hoping not to hear anything that would make me feel so much worse. I'd rather not know.

  It was my turn to stare at her, my brows furrowed as they went to the weatherman to hear about an incoming storm. After a few seconds, she blinked, looking in my direction, her face still and stony.

  "We have to know," she said, reading my expression. "We have to be prepared."

  "What if it's bad?"

  "We deal with it," she said. "Together."

  "But—" My phone buzzed beside me, interrupting my argument and causing my skin to grow cold. Every time it had gone off all day, I'd panicked, sure the number on the screen would signal my demise. How could anyone get away with killing a cop? Each time, though, it had been a promotional email or social media notification.

  I stared at the screen this time, a text message from Gina. It was the first I'd heard from her since the night before. I wondered how angry she must be with me. I couldn't blame her if she was, but the idea of arguing or trying to explain what had happened made me sick to my stomach.

  I opened the text message.

  "What is it?" Ainsley asked.

  What happened last night? Just wanted to check in and make sure everything's okay.

  I felt relieved, though pressured at the same time. How was I ever going to explain what happened? Or why I left? "It's Gina from work. Making sure everything's okay. I didn't explain why I had to rush out last night." I didn't look up as I said it, typing out my response.

  Sorry I had to rush out. I'll pay you back for dinner. Family emergency…

  Her response was almost instant: I hope everything's okay? Anything I can do?

  No, but I appreciate the offer. I'll explain on Monday.

  "What did you tell her?" she asked.

  "Nothing. That we had a family emergency." I laid my phone facedown on the couch.

  "You have to tell her I was sick. We have to keep our story straight across all channels."

  I nodded. "Okay, I’ll tell her that Monday. It’s fine."

  "Speaking of," she said, "after this, I need to call Glennon and smooth things over."

  "What are you going to tell her about the pictures?"

  "That the photographer got sick or something," she said. "I'll make something up."

  "Photographer?" I asked, cocking my head to the side. "She said you told her we were using a tripod."

  Ainsley turned to look at me, her face ashen. "What?"

  "She said you said we were—"

  "No. I told her you'd hired your coworker’s daughter."

  I swallowed. "No, I'm sure that's not what she told me. Maybe you were—"

  "I know what I said," she said, shaking her head as she stood from the couch. "Glennon was testing you… She wanted to prove I was lying."

  "Well, how was I supposed to know that?" I demanded.

  The sigh that escaped her throat said I'd done something awful, but I had no idea why it was the end of the world. Not compared to everything else we had going on. "Call her and explain. It'll be fine."

  "How would you like me to explain?" she asked, pressing her lips together as she stared at me, phone in hand. "I can't tell her the truth."

  "Just tell her I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “It was your coworker’s daughter who was supposed to be our photographer, Peter. You would’ve been the one to hire her.”

  “Then…tell her we were having family night."

  "Glennon and Seth come to half our family nights." She put air quotes around the words family night. "Why wouldn't I have invited them if that were the case?" She shook her head, rubbing her temple and walking across the room. "I have to fix this."

  "I'm sorry," I called after her, but she was already out of the room.

  I stared back at the television, feeling like a child who'd been scolded and sent to his room. The news anchors were discussing a local food and toy drive for the upcoming holiday. I lowered the volume, hoping to hear what Ainsley was telling Glennon.

  "I have a confession…" I heard her say in a low voice. "The other night, when you asked if Peter and I are having problems, I wasn't being honest with you."

  There was a pause.

  "Yeah, I mean, we are, but it’s worse than I let on. They aren't huge, don’t worry… We're…you know, we're hanging in there, but it's not great."

  I felt the sting of her words. Was that how she felt, or was she lying again? She was only trying to smooth things over with Glennon, wasn’t she?

  "Anyway, that's why I lied to you today. We were planning a stay-in date night sort of thing, and it was too embarrassing to admit."

  She paused again.

  "No, I know that. I do tell you everything. Almost everything. I don't know why this was so hard… I thought about asking you to watch the kids, but they're all off in their own worlds these days, it's not like they were a bother." She paused again, and then there was a laugh. I felt my muscles relax immediately.

  "Yeah, he's been doing all sorts of chores around here lately. I’ve been complaining about that porch for months. At least he's trying… Oh, yes. That sounds great. We'll plan for dinner tomorrow, then… Okay. See you then. Yep, love you too."

  There was silence in the kitchen, no sounds of footsteps or movement at all, then I heard her shuffling across the floor. When she reappeared in the living room, she smiled stiffly at me.

  "Glennon and Seth want us to come over tomorrow for dinner."

  "Now isn’t a good time, Ainsley…"

  "Why not?" she asked, her eyes wide and purposefully innocent. After a moment of me trying to decide a response, she said, "We have to keep everything up as normal. We have to keep living our lives, Peter."

  The dead cop under our porch doesn't get to keep living his life. "Did you have to tell her we were having problems?"

  "I had to fix the lie. It was the only way."

  I didn't tell her I could've come up with a hundred other solutions that didn't involve marital issues, but it wasn't as if Glennon didn't know we'd had issues in the past. "Fine. Whatever. What time tomorrow?"

  "Sev—" She started to answer but stopped, turning her attention to the television screen, her jaw agape. "Turn it up…" came the horrified whisper.

  I followed her gaze to where a blonde news anchor sat at a desk. In the corner of the screen, a small photo of a bald-headed, sharp-featured man in a cop's uniform was placed. The ticker across the screen read Police ask for help in search for missing officer.

  I turned up the volume, listening closely as the anchor began to speak.

  "Police today are reporting that a local law enforcement officer has gone missing. Stefan De Luca, forty-six, a decorated Army veteran and member of the Arrington police force for nearly twenty years, was reported missing when he did not report for his shift this morning at eight a.m. Officer De Luca's fellow officers say it is unheard of for him to not report for a shift, and they have been unable to reach him all day. De Luca's wife, Illiana De Luca, was on a business trip in Oakland, California, at the time that her husband disappeared, but she is home now and asking for the public's help to locate her missing husband. We'll talk to her when we come back."

  The screen filled with a red and white transition, breaking away to a car commercial, and I looked over at my wife, who, for the first time all day, looked utterly terrified.

  I felt as though I were going to be sick as I stared at her, a bitter taste forming in my mouth. "He had a wife?"

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AINSLEY

  We'd left the kids at home alone with clear instructions not to leave the house or answer the door as we headed to Seth and Glennon's, not much room for talking in the thick silence that filled the car. When we pulled into their driveway, I’d picked the nail polish off most of my fingernails.

  “Ready?” Peter asked, switching off the car. He was pale, his hands still gripped tightly to the wheel.

  “It’s going to be fine,” I assured him, though I didn’t feel th
at way at all. “Act normal. We have to pretend everything’s normal.”

  He opened his car door without another word and walked around the front of it to meet me at the edge of their yard. We walked across the dying grass, littered with red and yellow leaves, to reach their front porch. As soon as we stepped foot on it, the front door swung open and Seth appeared.

  His crooked smile filled his stubble-coated face. He ran a hand over his dark, buzzed hair and stepped back to hold the door open. “’Bout time you two showed up,” he joked, hugging me before shaking Peter’s hand.

  Peter gave a low laugh, pulling him in for a one-armed hug. “How’s work?” he asked as he released him. Under normal circumstances, I’d walk away from them as their conversation faded into shop talk, but that night, I didn’t want to leave Peter alone. I was too worried he’d panic and say or do something incriminating.

  Seth and Glennon were our best friends, but did I believe they would cover up something like this? And even if they did, did I believe they’d still look at us the same? The truth was that I couldn’t expect them to look at us the same when I couldn’t even look at us the same.

  “Work’s good,” Seth said, sighing. “We had this killer merger in Toronto, so we’ve been dealing with trying to keep everything running smoothly…” I watched Peter wince at his use of the word killer, though Seth didn’t seem to notice. “Always a pain in the ass, but the acquisition will be worth it in the long run. What about you? How’re things? How’s business? How’re the kids?”

  Peter was nodding excessively, not responding, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. I put a hand on his arm. “The kids are well,” I said. “And Peter got asked to weigh in on the redevelopment downtown.” Peter met my eye, a small smile on his lips, then he looked back at Seth, seeming to regain his footing.