Chap­ter 17 begins with us out­side, set­tled into those stur­dy wood­en Adiron­dack chairs as a qui­et fire burns before us, its warmth flick­er­ing against the cool evening. The scent of meat grilling in the back­ground min­gles with the smoky air, and for a moment, every­thing feels sus­pend­ed in peace­ful still­ness. But smells have a strange way of unearthing mem­o­ries, and sud­den­ly I’m back in Phoenix, where the heat pressed down like judg­ment and the dry air turned every­thing into kin­dling.

One sum­mer night flick­ers through my mind like an old film reel—Jane’s real cries in the back­ground, Mr. Brock’s flushed face loom­ing above, the beer in his hand foam­ing at the rim. I’d fall­en into the grav­el, skin scraped and burn­ing, star­ing up at his ridicu­lous apron with its car­toon­ish frog lips, think­ing how absurd it was that some­one so cru­el could wear some­thing meant for a joke. Even now, decades lat­er, that heat prick­les under my skin, a shame not quite burned away.

Mem­o­ries like that don’t just van­ish; they bur­row and wait. And though I’ve buried that life beneath lay­ers of new begin­nings, it still finds me in the qui­et moments, like now, when I glance down at the ring on my fin­ger and remind myself that part of my past is over. That man and that place can’t define who I am anymore—no mat­ter what John or any­one else tries to say.

Eddie sits beside me, his limbs stretched out, his pro­file calm and almost stat­uesque under the twi­light. The trans­for­ma­tion in him since we met still catch­es me off guard—he’s stead­ier now, more ground­ed, and there’s a soft­ness around the edges that wasn’t there before. I find sat­is­fac­tion in that, a qui­et pride that maybe, just maybe, I’ve helped bring that ver­sion of him to life.

He smiles at the fire, and I think of dress­es, lace veils, and store­front win­dows shim­mer­ing with promise. That’s when I hear myself say it, out loud and sure: “I think we should elope.” The idea lands between us like a peb­ble in water, small at first, but rip­pling with mean­ing.

Eddie doesn’t flinch; he just sips his beer and sets it down slow­ly, watch­ing me. His response is gen­tle but firm—“We don’t have to do any­thing you don’t want to do.” That’s what I’ve come to like about him: he doesn’t try to man­age or fix me, just lets me be.

“I don’t have much fam­i­ly left,” I admit. “And Birmingham’s full of peo­ple I don’t want watch­ing me say vows I bare­ly believe in.” The cor­ners of Eddie’s mouth lift, and I know he’s think­ing the same thing about John—about the life I left behind.

He brush­es his thumb across my hand and says, “We can do what­ev­er you want. Cour­t­house, lake, Tennessee—hell, Gatlin­burg has dri­ve-thru chapels if you’re feel­ing adven­tur­ous.” It’s meant to be sweet, and it is, but there’s a small pang in my chest at the idea of mar­ry­ing like that, of our love reduced to a receipt and a road­side pho­to.

When I pic­tured elop­ing, I dreamed of beach­es and sun­sets, not motels with flick­er­ing neon signs and scratchy sheets. I don’t say any of that, though. Instead, I just smile, let­ting the fan­ta­sy fade into silence.

But I know I can’t get mar­ried here. Not in this town, not with Bea’s ghost hang­ing around every cor­ner. I can’t bear the whis­pers, the com­par­isons, the way her name would linger in the air like expen­sive per­fume.

Inside, I gath­er our emp­ty bot­tles and slide the door shut behind me, the glass seal­ing away the soft crack­le of the fire. Just then, I hear something—soft at first, but repeat­ing. A series of thuds, rhyth­mic and low, com­ing from some­where upstairs.

I pause, heart ham­mer­ing, strain­ing to hear. There’s noth­ing for a moment, then more noise, a pat­tern now, almost like a heart­beat puls­ing through the ceil­ing. I glance back at Eddie, still loung­ing in his chair, look­ing at the stars as if he has no idea the world is shift­ing inside this house.

I step fur­ther in, lis­ten­ing. The sound reminds me of that old sto­ry from school—the one with the beat­ing heart under the floor­boards, guilt puls­ing loud­er than truth. In a strange, instinc­tive way, I pic­ture Bea upstairs, not a ghost but a pres­ence, heavy and real.

Sud­den­ly, the noise stops. I freeze, wait­ing. A silence that feels too still, too inten­tion­al.

Then—a knock at the door. Sharp. Firm. It jerks me back to the present like a slap, and I drop a bot­tle, its clat­ter shat­ter­ing the still­ness. Eddie bare­ly moves, just toss­es over his shoul­der, “Jane?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, annoyed by his calm. I brush bro­ken glass into a cor­ner and step into the foy­er, hands trem­bling as I reach for the knob. On the porch is a woman in uni­form, khakis and a blue shirt, a badge glint­ing at her waist.

A police offi­cer. My stom­ach flips, but I keep my face serene. I place my hand casu­al­ly over my col­lar­bone, where the dia­mond ring rests, an anchor of sta­tus and sto­ry.

I remind myself there’s no rea­son to be afraid. This offi­cer doesn’t see who I used to be. She sees a home­own­er, a woman dressed in mut­ed tones and taste­ful accessories—someone with noth­ing to hide.

It’s amaz­ing how much pow­er cloth­ing can hold. A pol­ished look, some expen­sive jew­el­ry, a care­ful­ly cho­sen tone of voice—they can dis­guise so much. They can turn a run­away into a wife-to-be, a girl with scars into some­one who belongs.