Chapter 29

29

I don’t know the couple in the video before me. I’ve never seen them a day in my life. And yet here they are, destroying it.

“We didn’t know any of these so-called influencers,” the man says. “We’re not really social media people.”

“We mostly use Facebook,” the woman says. “Then we started seeing Meredith Lee’s face everywhere. And I thought she looked so familiar. But I couldn’t place her for the longest time. I thought maybe she just had one of those faces.”

“Then over dinner one night, she came up on the news—we watch the news while eating dinner,” the man says. “And there’s her photo, and Shelley says to me, ‘Don’t you think she looks familiar?’ And I said, ‘Oh, I know her. She’s that lady we bumped into at the open house. The one in Alhambra.’ And Shelley went, ‘Oh my god, that’s it!’ That was probably one or two days before she was murdered. I mean, how creepy is that? Very, that’s how.”

“I downloaded TikTok,” Shelley says proudly.

“She did.”

“I did a deep dive, and I watched all the videos about Meredith and Aspen, and I said to Andrew, I said, ‘I don’t trust this Aspen. There’s just something about her that’s rubbing me the wrong way.’?”

Andrew nods. “Yep.”

“So I watched Aspen’s videos, and that’s when I saw him!”

“The Realtor,” Andrew says, just a beat before Shelley says the same thing. She glances at him, annoyed at giving it away.

Shelley leans forward, her eyes wide. “The Realtor who was holding the open house where we saw Meredith shortly before she went missing is Ben, Aspen’s husband.”

···

That’s it. The silver bullet. All the stuff I just did, Helena’s brilliant strategy—all of it is shattered just like that. I stand there, ignoring the broken wineglass and spreading puddle of wine at my feet, and I start doomscrolling.

The responses are swift and unforgiving. Theories sprout like wild grass.

Ben was sleeping with Meredith!!!

Aspen killed Meredith because Ben was sleeping with Meredith!!!

Aspen was following Ben and spied on them!!

No, Aspen was stalking Meredith!!

The last one makes me laugh a thin, mirthless sound. No , I want to say to them, she was stalking me . And how has all of this ended up centered around Ben? Can we please have a single story that doesn’t center around a man? God, it’s going to boil down into me killing Meredith because I got jealous about her and Ben, isn’t it? Come the fuck on. As if I would do such a thing. I’ve always said, if a husband cheats on his wife, revenge should be taken out on the husband, not the mistress. Not that anyone would believe me. It’s too familiar a storyline. Someone cheats, so the spouse offs the other man—or the other woman, in this case. People like familiar storylines. And I suppose at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter why I killed Meredith.

I video-call Helena. I don’t expect her to pick up the phone—it’s eight thirty p.m.—but she picks up on the first ring. She’s wearing a silk robe, but still has full makeup on.

“I was just about to call you,” she says.

“You’ve seen it?”

“Would be hard not to; it’s everywhere. They’re likable too. Relatable. People believe them.”

“Everyone thinks I killed Meredith because she was sleeping with Ben.”

“I’m going to ask you this once, Aspen. And I will trust you.”

I brace myself.

“Did you kill Meredith?”

I shake my head. “No.” The lie comes out surprisingly easy. Because, in a way, I didn’t kill Meredith. She did it to herself. She left me with no recourse.

“Alright.” She tilts her head to one side and thinks for a bit. “We’ll need Ben to work with us here. We need him on camera, telling the world why Meredith was at the open house. What’s wrong?”

I realize I’m frowning. “Um…Ben and I are not really on good terms right now.”

Now, it’s Helena’s turn to frown. “That’s not good, Aspen. That’s a really bad idea. You don’t want a pissed-off husband right now. You need to show a united front. He needs to be right there by your side, convincing everyone that his loving wife couldn’t have murdered an ant, never mind her best friend.”

“Yeah, the thing is, he…kind of thinks I killed her?” I close my eyes. God, that sounded so bad.

“Oh dear,” Helena says. “And why does he think that?”

It’s a fight to keep myself from squirming in my seat. “I—we’ve been having problems for a long time now. The resentment’s been building up, and some nights, I like to go out for a drive on my own because the atmosphere at home just gets so thick and unbearable. Anyway, I did that about a month ago, and—”

“You went for a midnight drive around the time Meredith was killed?”

“Yes.”

Helena sighs. “And I’m assuming you don’t have an alibi.”

“No. I was driving around aimlessly, singing sad songs.”

“Right. And that’s why Ben thinks you might have something to do with Meredith’s death.”

“Yes.”

Helena sucks in her breath through her teeth. “Alright. You need to get on his good side. There’s no way around it. He has to show support for you. He has to get on camera and explain why Meredith was at the open house. Preferably the answer is because she was there looking for a house to buy.”

I give a weak smile. If only that were the reason why she was at the open house. “What if people don’t believe Ben when he says that?”

“Of course they won’t. It’s too good a story to have him sleep with her. Sorry for my bluntness.”

“It’s fine. Ben hasn’t been faithful for a long time.”

Helena’s eyebrows rise. “Has he—? With Meredith?”

“No, that was new. I know he’s been with other women since we got married.”

“Hmm.” Helena taps her chin for a bit. I can practically see the gears in her mind clacking away. “And you don’t seem to mind this very much. Are you in an open marriage?”

The way she asks this makes me pause before answering. “Would it…be a good thing if we were in an open marriage?”

“Well, it’ll show that you were less likely to get angry when you found out he was sleeping with Meredith.”

“Ah. Then yes, we are in an open marriage.”

“Okay. But you haven’t—”

“No.”

Helena nods. “Good. As much as I hate to say this, society is a lot less understanding when the wife partakes in an open marriage.”

“Hah. Yeah, I know that much. No, I haven’t had time to have flings.”

“Alright, Aspen. Try to get a good night’s sleep. Record a video first thing tomorrow morning, preferably with Ben. And run it by me before posting.”

“Always.” Against all odds, I actually feel slightly better after hanging up. Helena is clearly a sorceress, and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I have her on my side. I put down the phone and start cleaning up the spilled wine and broken glass. As I do so, I think about my task. Convincing Ben to admit to everyone that he’s been cheating on me? It’s going to be a tough one, but I’m sure that when I explain to him what’s at stake—my freedom—he’ll do it for me.

···

It’s nearly midnight when Ben comes home, reeking of cheap beer and sweat. I get up from the couch and hurry to the kitchen, where I pour him a glass of cold water.

“Here.”

He takes it from me and glugs it down sloppily, rivulets of water pouring down the sides of his mouth. When he’s done, he gives me a wary look and mumbles, “Thanks,” before plopping down onto one of the counter stools.

“Um, I’m not sure if you saw, but there’s been a not-so-great development—”

“I saw. I was at the bar when some punks started shouting at me, asking me if I killed her.”

“Oh my god.” This whole case is quickly spiraling out of control. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

He grunts and peers up at me. “I didn’t do it, you know.”

I nod. I want to tell him I know, but then I wonder if, in the bitter, drunk state he’s in, he’ll use that against me and demand to know how I know that he didn’t kill her. Instead, I say, “I trust you.”

He breaks eye contact, looking away guiltily.

“So Helena says that it would be good if you could make a video with me. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep.”

“What? Why? Nobody wants to hear from me.”

“She said it’s really important to show that we’re a united front.”

“What am I supposed to say?” he demands, like I’m asking for the world when all I need is a one-minute video. It’s a struggle to keep my temper in check.

“Um, she thinks it would be a good idea if we told everyone that we’re in an open relationship.”

Ben gapes at me like I’ve just asked him to stab his own mother.

“It’ll show that I’m less likely to have gotten jealous about your affair with Meredith, because I’m okay with you being with other women.”

“Wh-what the fuck, Aspen?” he says. “First of all, we are not in an open relationship. And second of all, even if we were, I’m not going to tell the whole world about it. What’s everyone going to think? I’ll be fired from the agency. My whole family would disown me. My reputation would be ruined.”

Anger overwhelms me. My asshole of a husband, who’s always strived to keep me small, who’s always ready with cutting remarks. My husband who never once showed me appreciation for everything I’ve done for this family. Who doesn’t seem to be able to understand what’s at stake, even when it’s staring him right in the face. I have three little kids to look after, and a man-child is the last thing I want to be spending time on. “Oh, okay, never mind then,” I hiss. “We’ll just tell everyone that you have a long history of cheating on me, and each time, I’ve just looked the other way. Would that be more accepta—” The rest of the word ends in a gasp as Ben grabs my arms in a merciless grip and shoves me against the kitchen island. My lower back slams into the overhang, and pain shoots up and down my spine. It feels like my spine’s just been snapped in two. The pain is so bad that I don’t even scream out loud—I can’t; the breath’s been knocked out of me and only an agonized gurgle comes out.

Ben’s face is right up against mine, our noses grazing. His teeth are bared, and everything inside me is telling me that this is it. This is how I die. “Don’t be a fucking bitch, Aspen,” he growls. “All these years, there’s never been any room for me in your life. First, it was the Mer and Aspen show. Then, when you decided you got too big for her, it became the All Aspen show. It’s always been about you. You love the attention so much, you can deal with all of this shit yourself. This mess is yours. Do not drag me and the kids into it. Just—” He shakes me, once, and this time, I do cry out. “Don’t,” he says with finality. Then he pushes me away, and I slide down to the floor in a crumpled heap.

I’m not sure if what I’m doing counts as crying. Tears are rolling down my face, but I’m not sobbing, because it’s too painful to sob. I just lie there, gasping for breath until the fire in my back recedes, then I curl up into a ball, and that’s when I do cry. For some ridiculous reason, what I’m feeling right now is shame and guilt. A very significant part of me is ashamed for pushing Ben into doing this. I was the one who goaded him, who kept pressing even after he’d said he didn’t want to shoot a video with me. I did this. It’s all my fault. But even as I think that, I know how messed up the thought is. Hot on the heels of the guilt is fury. How dare he lay his hands on me? How dare he—

He’s right. It sinks in with awful clarity. Ben is right. All these years it’s always been my show. There has never been any room for him. Not for clinger-on Ben. He’s like the appendix in our lives, and now he’s infected, and it’s clear what I need to do.

I stay on the kitchen floor until weak morning light streams in through the windows and the birds begin to chirp. Slowly, gingerly, wincing at every move, I uncurl. My back spasms with electricity, and my breath comes in and out in little whimpers. I push myself up and stagger to the sink where I drink straight from the tap. The water revives me a little, just enough to lurch to the bathroom, where I open the medicine cabinet and take two Tylenols. I lean over the sink and stare into the mirror.

The woman who stands before me looks utterly broken. Pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and a tremor in her arms, like they can’t bear the weight of her upper body. I blink slowly. Ben did this to me. My husband, who fell in love with me because he saw me as a helpless, young, naive thing. A thing to spoil and protect. My husband, who, when I stopped being a thing and started coming into my own person, became embittered and small. My husband, who’s spent the last few years of our marriage belittling me, reminding me at every turn of how empty-headed I am. How frivolous my job is. Scoffing every time I call my job a “career.” Refusing to celebrate any of my milestones. My husband, who has always underestimated me.

It’s easy, I suppose, to underestimate influencers. We’re often minimized as these shallow, featherbrained creatures. What people fail to see is how cutthroat we have to be in order to make it in the industry. We have to think outside the box to come up with creative content. And not just one or two times but every fucking day, multiple times a day, we have to scour our brains and extract creativity from them. We need to be disciplined. We need to be organized. And above all, we need to be charismatic.

I spread my mouth into a smile. The Tylenol is beginning to kick in, numbing the pain in my back slightly. I straighten up slowly, wincing, running my hands up and down my spine. Nothing’s broken. No slipped discs. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. My smile, previously looking more like a grimace, turns into a real one.

My husband has just made the worst mistake of his life.