Chap­ter 6 begins with Eddie absent. His car isn’t in the garage, and I take Adele out for her walk alone, pre­tend­ing the hol­low in my chest isn’t dis­ap­point­ment. The puppy’s leash is light in my hand, and we head not into Thornfield’s man­i­cured lanes, but down­hill toward Moun­tain Brook Vil­lage. This isn’t just about chang­ing scenery—it’s strat­e­gy. I want to be seen. By walk­ing Adele where peo­ple don’t rec­og­nize me as the dog-walk­er, I’m not just some­one with a leash—I’m some­one con­nect­ed to Eddie Rochester. That dis­tinc­tion mat­ters more than I’d like to admit.

The streets are qui­et, store win­dows gleam­ing in the ear­ly morn­ing light. Adele trots hap­pi­ly beside me, her tail wag­ging like we’re both just out for a pleas­ant stroll. But beneath the sur­face, I’m rehears­ing an illu­sion. I pass bou­tiques with items I’ve seen inside the hous­es I work in—overpriced throw pil­lows, pas­tel hand­bags, things that scream dis­pos­able income. And just as I’m start­ing to relax into the rhythm of it, a voice cuts in: “Jane?” Mrs. McLaren. She’s hold­ing her cof­fee like a prop, dressed in head-to-toe ath­leisure and ooz­ing the kind of South­ern sweet­ness that always feels like a trap.

She steps clos­er, her gaze shift­ing to Adele. Her tone stays light, but her words scold. “Prob­a­bly not safe to have the dogs out of the neigh­bor­hood.” It’s the kind of cor­rec­tion dis­guised as con­cern that digs deep. I smile and nod like I’ve been trained to, hid­ing the flare of humil­i­a­tion that burns up my spine. To her, I’m a ser­vice work­er who stepped too far from the invis­i­ble bound­ary meant to keep me in place. A dog-walk­er pre­tend­ing to be some­thing she’s not.

I head back toward Thorn­field, my jaw tight, and let myself into Eddie’s house. Adele’s leash clicks against the door as I unclip her and let her out into the back­yard. I should leave now—do the polite thing, pre­tend this was just a drop-off. But I don’t. I stay. Some­thing in me wants to linger, to feel out the edges of this space when no one is look­ing. And this time, I’m not look­ing for some­thing to take. I’m look­ing for her.

There are no pho­tographs on the liv­ing room walls, no clut­ter on the man­tel. I notice the gaps where pic­ture frames must have once been. The absence is loud­er than pres­ence would be. I fol­low the pull of curios­i­ty, head­ing upstairs. The sec­ond floor is dim, shad­ows lin­ger­ing in cor­ners. There’s art on the walls, ele­gant and curat­ed, but noth­ing per­son­al. It’s a house where some­one removed their life in a hurry—or had it removed for them.

At the end of the hall­way, beneath a round stained-glass win­dow, there’s a table. And on that table sits a sin­gle framed pho­to. Just one. It’s Eddie and Bea. They’re stand­ing on a beach, and the way he looks at her in the pho­to hits me like a punch. It’s not just that they’re attrac­tive. It’s the way their bod­ies align, the way his eyes are fixed on her like she’s the sun. They fit. And see­ing that makes me feel fool­ish. Of course he doesn’t want me. Not like that.

I’m still star­ing when a voice says, “That was in Hawaii.” I turn, star­tled, and the keys slip from my hand. Eddie is there, at the top of the stairs, lean­ing casu­al­ly, watch­ing me. He doesn’t seem sur­prised to find me in the hall­way, and his pres­ence sud­den­ly makes the space feel small­er. “That’s where we met,” he says. “Hawaii, last year.”

I try to recov­er. I lie, say I was look­ing for the bath­room. He doesn’t call me on it, not exact­ly. Just gives me that smile that nev­er quite reach­es his eyes. He moves clos­er, talk­ing about the oth­er pictures—how he burned them. Wed­ding pho­tos, house-build­ing mem­o­ries. All gone. But not this one. This one, he kept.

I ask why. Why keep just this one image? His answer is sim­ple. He couldn’t bring him­self to throw it away. And in that moment, some­thing shifts. I see grief, yes, but I also see the door it left open. A void where some­thing used to be. A void I’m step­ping into. Not because I want to replace her. But because I want to mat­ter to him.

His hand finds my elbow, fin­gers warm. “What hap­pened was awful,” I say. He nods. But then, his voice drops low. “But you’re not sor­ry. Because her not being here means you can be.” His thumb moves against my arm, and every nerve in my body responds. I should step back. I should tell him he’s wrong. But I don’t.

Because he’s not.