Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

PETER

T he 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?"