Page 69 of Two Couples

Her attitude changed as quickly as the arrival of a flash flood. “You’re eating the meals, aren’t you? I’ve made dinner two nights. I didn’t even ask you to do it. I asked for a little help.”

“And I said, I’m going to the lake.” I began taking the stairs two at a time.

Emily scurried up after me. “Patrick. Please. We need to fix things here.”

“I know how we can fix everything.”

“Not like that. We can’t change our minds even if we wanted to.”

“It’s on us to do right by that man, whoever he is.”

She wove around me and climbed up three steps ahead. She turned and looked down at me, a hand on each railing so I couldn’t get by. “We still need to eat. And we bought food that will spoil if we don’t use it. So I’m making a nice dinner. We can all have a friendly conversation with a little wine like we used to.”

“Can we?”

“Yes. We’re adults. We have a difference of opinion.”

“Is that what you call hiding a murder? A difference of opinion?”

“We don’t even know if he was murdered. What if he was role-playing a fantasy with someone and he fell into the pool?”

I laughed. “Unlikely at best. And that doesn’t explain the note. Or why this imagined role-playing partner left him to drown.”

“I’d really like your help with dinner. You’ll feel hot again the minute you finish your swim. And it’s mid-afternoon. The beach is packed.”

“It’s never that packed.”

Her expression hardened. “I’ve made dinner both nights and it’s a lot of work. You need to help me. Be a stand-up guy.”

“I’m the only stand-up guy here.”

“We own this house together. We’re here for ten days—together. We need to get back on solid ground.”

I was hoping to get out of owning this house. As that thought passed through my mind, I realized reporting the murder—and it was absolutely a murder—would make our share of the property difficult to sell. A lot of people won’t buy a home where someone has died. When it’s murder, it’s worse. I seemed to recall Samantha giving me the statistics once. I couldn’t remember, but it would be difficult enough—convincing someone to share ownership with strangers.

I’d never felt so trapped in my life. This was a nightmare that wasn’t going to end. Maybe I needed to help make dinner. Maybe I needed to keep everyone calm if I had any hope of getting where I knew we needed to go—with my marriage, with reporting the crime, with owning this house. “Okay. What are you making?”

“Chicken enchiladas. Spanish rice. A black bean salad.” She said this without smiling. Maybe I’d pushed her past her limit. Good. She needed to wake up.

I followed her down the stairs, longing for the cold water I’d been anticipating, my muscles aching to be put to good use.

As I chopped onion and tomato for the black bean salad, Emily shredded chicken she’d already cooked. She put on a playlist of oldies that included “Thriller.” It didn’t strike me as the best soundtrack for what we were living through, but I did like the music, so I kept my mouth shut.

Once I had a neat pile of finely chopped onion and diced tomatoes, Emily handed me two avocados. As she placed them in my hands, she continued holding on to them and looked me directly in the eye. “I want to apologize for what Keith did.”

“Shouldn’t he be the one to apologize?”

“I’m doing it,” she said.

“Okay. But I’m not accepting it.”

“Please, Patrick.”

“The only reason he succeeded in landing even a single punch was because he caught me by surprise. A coward’s approach.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“I’m bigger. I’m definitely stronger and in better shape. He never would have gotten close to me in any other situation. But the last thing on my mind was anticipating my friend punching me in the gut.”