I lean over the porch railing instead, all bone dry and bleached from the sun. A bloated magpie lands with a squawk to my right, peering at me with dull red eyes. He tilts his head, waiting for food. I narrow my eyes at him. Nobody’s occupied this house for forty years. Who’s been feeding him?
“Sorry, mate. I got nothing for ya,” I tell him.
I step off the porch and head inside. The magpie watches, still and disapproving. I’m close enough to touch him, and he doesn’t even flinch. The neighbors must feed him.
Reaper perches on the back of the couch, watching Joe fiddle with the cords of his Xbox. It’s the first thing he insisted on before he agreed to move in: Get the electricity and Wi-Fi going for the bloody Xbox. It delayed our move-in day for two weeks, but hell, at least he’s here.
He switches the TV on, and the gigantic piece of modern technology clashes violently with theBrady Bunchkitchen and linoleum floor. The last time anyone lived here was the early eighties. It’s been frozen in time ever since. All our sleek, contemporary furniture is laughably out of place, and even Joe notices.
He smiles a bit guiltily. “I s’pose the house has never seen an Xbox before.”
I take a sip, swallow it down. “Shit, did they even have TV then?”
Joe reaches for the remote, adjusts the volume, and frowns. “Yeah, but only a few channels, I think.”
“Maybe that’s why he killed her.”
He snaps his eyes shut like he can’t believe I just said that, but his shoulders shake with guilty laughter. My heart glows. I haven’t made him laugh in a long time. I study him quietly, looking at him properly for the first time in ages. My husband’s handsome in a bland way. Average height, slim build—tooslim, I think. I always have to remind him to eat, and if I don’t cook for him, he either makes two-minute noodles or simply goes hungry. He has phobias of flying, large crowds, talking on the phone, and any TV show with a laugh track. I suspect he has generalized anxiety disorder, but he’ll never get diagnosed, because the idea of picking up the phone and making an appointment terrifies him. Which is why I make all the phone calls. Which is why he needs someone like me: I get shit done while he wrings his pale hands and panics.
His eyes are watery blue, and his hair is thick and shiny black. We dyed it in a truck-stop bathroom when we fled Queensland, and we re-dye it every six weeks to cover up the roots. He’s fair-haired naturally, with pale lashes that blinked a lot and hair so blond it was almost silver. Black hair is too heavy for him. Everything is too heavy for him these days.
People wonder why we’re together. Joe, the nervy bartender. And me, the Instagram whore. But the truth is that underneath all Joe’s beauty, he’s every bit as ugly as me. Ilovehim for that. Trust me, my husband is not so perfect. He has more secrets to hide than I do.
I drain the last drops of my beer, and Joe surprises me by asking, “Do you think the house wants us here?”
“The house?”
“Yeah,” he says, half-joking, half-serious, gripping the controller like it’ll give him strength. “I don’t think it likes us.”
“This house is gonna make us a fortune,” I tell him gently before adding, “One point three million, Joe. That’s the median house price in Beacon. Up 35percent annually.”
I can never say that last part without hugging myself gleefully.Up 35percent annually.I’ve done the figures an unhealthy number of times. Once these renovations are done, I’m looking at a profit of at least 600,000dollars. We are, I mean. Joe and I.
“Someone had to have the guts to do it,” I say resolutely, “andwedid.”
Wasn’t that what Rodney Peake, the real estate agent, said when all the formalities were over and we were signing the deed? “It takes a certain kind of someone to buy a murder house,” he said grimly, sliding it over like he was disappointed in us. Joe paused for a fraction before scribbling his name on the paper. “Not really my idea,” he mumbled. It might not have been his idea, but he’s certainly keen as hell on raking in the profits. Like I said, my husband’s ugly, too—only nobody knows that but me.
The realtor eyed me disapprovingly, and I don’t know why I smiled, but I did. I signed the deed with two jaunty S’s and a big, looping L.
“I guess you won’t be coming over for a cup of tea, then?” I asked, handing it back to him.
Quickly he signed his own name, and I noticed how he never quite touched the paper. The way he was acting, you’d think it was soaked in urine.
Or blood.
“No,” he said curtly, “I don’t think I could.”
I say good night to my husband. He looks so lost sitting there on our couch that I can’t help myself. I bend down, kiss him softly on the lips, and he actually lets me. God, I’ve missed this. But I don’t push it further. Not yet.
I reluctantly pull back and head for my room. I hear Reaper jump from the couch to follow me, and Joe calls out softly, “Good night.”
I smile up the creaky stairs, thinking about the kiss and the realtor’swords. You’re damn right it takes a certain kind of person to buy a murder house. You have to be familiar with the very ugly side of human nature. And who better than a therapist? Haven’t I heard it all? Haven’t I encouraged, evenprompted,my clients to talk about the big, bad things?
Most people sweep monsters under the bed. I pull the covers back and let them crawl in.
Chapter 2
My last clients of the day are the Millers. Their ten-year marriage is falling apart, and thank fuck for that. Nice to know I’m not the only one failing. When their last tear-filled session was over, I drove home whistling.
