Chapter 37
Ian spent the night on the couch. Notice I didn’t say he slept.
I could hear him crying off and on through the bedroom door until dawn.
It was reassuring to know he was still there, and not out doing something stupid.
I was up anyway, reading through the theories and hot takes swirling around online. I’m finding all of it pretty delicious.
Of course, now that they’ve identified the victim, a new theory—the one that I designed—should come together fairly easily.
Police from both Montgomery County and DC made it official at a joint press conference this morning: The remains in the suitcase belonged to Alexandra Stapleton.
She was twenty-three years old. Alex to family and friends.
A recent DC transplant. A passionate environmental studies major at the University of Vermont.
Beloved daughter and sister. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
The only part that really matters is she looks like Lyla Garrity from Friday Night Lights in the photos now looping on every channel.
And there’s nothing the media loves more than a beautiful young white woman who’s met a violent end.
Chad’s going over the details of a candlelight vigil planned for tonight, when my phone rings beside me. It’s Derrick.
I’ve been dying to call him, but I didn’t want to raise suspicion by seeming too thirsty. Better to wait for him to come to us.
“Hi, Margo,” he says somberly. “Horrifying news about this poor girl, isn’t it? So much potential. What a waste.”
I roll my eyes. “Really unthinkable.”
“So … I’m just checking in,” he says, trying to sound casual. “I haven’t wanted to push, but I kind of thought I would’ve heard from you by now.”
“Oh?”
“Well, yeah. I assume you guys want to pull the offer, but I can’t legally do that until you confirm—”
“What about the other buyers?” I interrupt him. “Have the rest of them dropped out?”
Ian sticks his head out of the bedroom, registering who I’m talking to. I put Derrick on speaker.
“Well, yeah. Of course they have,” says Derrick, sounding perplexed by the question. “At this rate, they’ll probably have to burn that place to the ground.”
Ian strides quickly over to the sofa now. “Derrick?” he interjects. “Thanks so much for calling. You’re right, we’re withdrawing our offer, too.”
“Sure, that’s what anyone would do in your—”
“No, no, Derrick.” I glare up at Ian, daring him to speak again. “Give us just a second, okay?”
I mute the phone, my eyes lingering on the screen to make extra sure I’ve properly silenced our end of the call. Now they burn back into Ian. “What the fuck?”
“I can’t do this, Margo. It’s too much, what you’re doing to Natalie. What you did to—” He chokes up before he can say her name. “I just … I can’t live in that house.”
How many times am I going to have to explain this to him?
“We’ve gone over this, Ian. If we don’t buy it, Jack and Curt will have zero reason not to tell the police about us. Zero. And, anyway”—I rest a hand on my belly—“this isn’t about you anymore.”
The lying, cheating father of my child stares at me for a few seconds before his face collapses in on itself. His eyes drop to the floor, as he begins to weep softly. Maybe it did work out for the best that I couldn’t kill him. Living might be a worse punishment.
I unmute the phone. “Derrick, are you still there?”
“I’m here. What’s the verdict?”
A smile breaks loose across my face.