Murder mystery shows were one of the first things that Mark and I bonded over when we met. We were both in grad school at Northwestern, me for my MSW and him for his MBA. We were at a bar near campus aptly named Hole in the Wall, on a Monday night during my second year. I bumped into him on the way to the bathroom, spilling vodka cranberry all down the front of his shirt. I was horrifically embarrassed and profusely apologized, especially after seeing how attractive he was, but he laughed and shrugged it off without a hint of mockery. That was my first indication that he might be more than just a guy in a bar.

He insisted on buying me another drink, even though I had been at fault, and we talked at a scratched wood bar table.

“My Friday nights are usually spent watching Dateline, so this is a nice change,” he said as we split a pitcher of beer.

My eyes widened. “Really? That’s my favorite show. Don’t laugh, but I have an intellectual crush on Keith Morrison.”

He leaned forward, and my heart beat faster in my chest. His fingers brushed mine as he whispered, “Me too.”

We only made it through another fifteen minutes before we went back to my apartment.

Two kids, a mortgage, and many car payments later, Mark appeared in the doorway and laughed when he saw the title of the movie I had queued. “She Never Came Home. Should I be worried?” He settled down next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as I shared the blanket with him.

“You know it’s the husband. It’s always the husband,” I said as I poked him in the ribs. “So make sure you really cover your tracks if you murder me, otherwise you’ll end up in jail and the kids will have to live with your parents.”

He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. “Well, I could at least get rid of your phone records. Mike in IT is pretty sweet on me.”

I nodded. “Now you’re thinking.”

“I can flirt with the best of them,” he said. “Cue it up, and let’s see how long it takes for the husband’s alibi to fall apart.”

—

I woke up the next morning feeling deeply unsettled. It wasn’t from the documentary, where the husband, shockingly, did kill his wife and buried her in the woods behind their house. Mark and I had collapsed into bed together, too tired to do anything but kiss, and I had fallen fast asleep.

And then the dreams came. Of someone breaking into our house, chasing Mark with a knife, before turning it on me. Of my children being pulled into a deep, dark, never-ending hole as I tried desperately to claw away the moist dirt that fell on top of them, swallowing them whole as I screamed.