Chapter 35
Plus, there’s no way he would’ve fit inside Natalie’s suitcase.
Alex lived in the nicest part of Capitol Hill, with historic brick sidewalks and handsome nineteenth-century architecture.
Comparatively, her apartment building was a dump (and crucially, not the kind of place that has a doorman or a front desk).
Still, the rent for a studio in that neighborhood should’ve been well out of reach for a clipboard girl at an environmental nonprofit.
Her family must have money, though I can’t say for sure.
It’s not like I could’ve Googled her and risked leaving more of a digital trail.
It was easier, anyway, knowing almost nothing about her, aside from the fact that she was fucking my husband.
As I rounded the corner onto her block Sunday night, the asphalt, slick from the early-evening rain, reflected the orange glow of the street lamps.
I slipped into the open parking space a few row houses away from her building, then double-checked that my mask and gloves were secure, that enough of the blond wig—the same one I wore at celebrity karaoke night all those years ago—was visible.
I collected the suitcase from the back and looked quickly in both directions to confirm I was alone.
Of course I was nervous. To keep myself focused and tamp down the fear, I repeated the steps of the plan over and over in my head.
Not so different, really, from preparing for an important client pitch.
“Hello?”
Her voice sounded younger than I expected. There was an uncomfortable pinch in my stomach. Like I said, I really do blame Ian for this whole mess, but my hands were tied.
“Hello?” Alex said again, after I’d hesitated. “Is someone there?”
I held my recorder up to the intercom and pressed play: “Babe? It’s me. Let me in.”
Ian’s voice. From earlier that day, when I’d locked him out of the apartment.
“Oh!” She sounded delighted. “Okay, just a minute!”
There was a buzzing noise, then the click of the double glass doors unlocking.
I rolled the suitcase to a small elevator off the shabby lobby and took the quick, rickety ride to the second floor. Before reaching Alex’s unit, I extracted the large silver wrench from the suitcase’s front pocket. The one I’d found in the red toolbox beneath Natalie’s kitchen sink.
What happened next unfolded like a dream that I watched from outside myself, my consciousness a numb, impassive witness while my body did the work.
Alex, at the door, silky blue shorts and a white tank top.
A single, solid thud to the head before a scream could erupt from her delicate face.
The twitching of an arm, the fluttering of an eyelid, on the parquet floor of a tiny, studio apartment.
A pillow from the bed—kinder, not so messy—to finish the job.
The underwear that I’d found on Natalie’s closet floor (extremely irresponsible when you have a dog) shoved into Alex’s sheets. Another pair left in the hamper. A clump of hair from Natalie’s brush stuffed into the shower drain, her toothbrush tucked into the top drawer of the bathroom vanity.
A Nokia burner phone—the twin to Ian’s—sitting on a nightstand, stashed in a crossbody bag.
Surfaces wiped.
Suitcase … packed.
A blonde in a face mask and a black hoodie tugging it, two-handed, back to the elevator.
Leveraging it with all her might against the back bumper of a red hatchback to get it inside.
Then, finally, driving north out of the city, to a perfect house, in a perfect place.