Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

AINSLEY

W e'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.