Page 32 of The Arrangement

The 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—"