Page 22 of Two Couples

“But you don’t know that!”

“I have logic. No one knew who the owner of this house was. We’d never stayed here. They chose a house that had been unoccupied for a while. They…”

I waited for him to finish.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and moved closer to the road.

“They?” I prompted.

“Nothing.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“I wish you’d acknowledge how scary this is.”

“Stop with the paranoia. Please.”

“It’s not paranoia.”

“Okay. Wrong word. Trauma that you’ve let fester.”

“I didn’t let it fester. It lives with me. I can’t just pretend it never happened.”

“Okay. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

He touched my face and I almost cried with the joy of having him show some tenderness toward me.

“I talk to my cop buddies all the time, and they’re nothing like Keith says. He’s painting all people in law enforcement with a single brush stroke because of one cop, years ago.”

My throat tightened. I put my hand there, trying to calm the panic. “You didn’t tell them about this, did you? Your cop friends, Brian, or… You didn’t tell them someone was murdered here, and we can’t find his body, did you?”

“I don’t know why you’re going along with what Keith and Emily think. You put them on a pedestal. I don’t think their marriage is as perfect as you seem to think.”

SEVENTEEN

KEITH

Three Months Ago

Emily and I were watching a documentary, but I couldn’t focus. All I could think about was the three-hour time period that afternoon when I’d texted her four times and she hadn’t responded. When she finally did reply to one of my messages, she acted as if that was the sole message and that I’d sent it only moments before.

The message itself wasn’t important. I’d asked what kind of food she wanted me to pick up for dinner—our Friday night tradition of takeout, a crime documentary, and a bottle of wine.

When I’d asked her why she hadn’t responded for so long, she told me she was getting a massage. Because it was obvious she was lying—a massage doesn’t take three hours—I didn’t push the issue. I needed time to sort it out in my head, to figure out what I wanted to say to her.

I didn’t know why that clarity was coming to me in the middle of a TV show about a lawyer, who had stolen from his clients, and then seen his psyche deteriorate to the point he was capable of committing murder.

I picked up the remote and pressed pause.

“Why are you stopping it?” Emily reached for her wineglass and took a sip of Zinfandel.

“You’re different lately.”

She laughed. “You paused a show to tell me that?”

“Are you aware that you’re different?”