Chap­ter 19 begins with the arrival of com­fort food wrapped in foil, but the warmth of neigh­bor­ly con­cern car­ries a sub­tle edge. Car­o­line McLaren is the first to show up, arms full with a bub­bling chick­en Divan and con­do­lences that sound rehearsed. Her hug lingers too long, and she warns the casse­role shouldn’t go through the dishwasher—as if that’s the most press­ing con­cern in a house now shad­owed by mur­der. A few hours lat­er, Emi­ly and Camp­bell arrive in tan­dem, bring­ing paper bags from the high-end gourmet shop in the vil­lage. It’s the kind of place that lets you pre­tend you cooked when all you did was sign a receipt. I smile, nod­ding in appre­ci­a­tion, but there’s a stiff­ness in my jaw that won’t go away.

As I store the con­tain­ers in the freez­er, I can feel their eyes on me—sipping their iced cof­fees, watch­ing me like I might crack open and spill some­thing use­ful. They want details. Every­one wants details. But I also see some­thing else in their faces today—sincerity. Campbell’s eyes are swollen, and Emi­ly isn’t wear­ing a hint of make­up, some­thing I’ve nev­er seen before. They look… tired. Grief-rid­den. And for the first time, it hits me that they’re mourn­ing too. These weren’t just neigh­bor­hood acquain­tances. Bea and Blanche were their peo­ple. They host­ed par­ties togeth­er. Raised chil­dren on the same streets. Whis­pered about each oth­er, maybe, but also depend­ed on one anoth­er to main­tain the illu­sion that life here was per­fect.

“We all are,” I agree qui­et­ly, unsure what else to say. For a long sec­ond, we just sit in silence, the kind that usu­al­ly only exists between peo­ple who have known each oth­er far longer than I’ve known them. Then, Camp­bell final­ly asks the ques­tion hang­ing between us like fog: “They real­ly think some­one killed them?” I nod, and Emily’s lips part slight­ly, like she’s about to say some­thing else but then decides not to. I think about how Detec­tive Lau­rent keeps cir­cling us all like a hawk, and I won­der who she thinks is the prey.

Campbell’s voice is small when she says, “They want to talk to me on Thurs­day.” Emi­ly adds that her appoint­ment is Fri­day. Both of them glance my way, eyes search­ing, but I keep my face unread­able. What am I sup­posed to say? That I’m ter­ri­fied the detec­tives will start dig­ging into my past? That I’m afraid my old life is leak­ing through the cracks of this new one like water under a locked door?

After they leave, the house is qui­et again. Too qui­et. That’s when the phone rings. The num­ber flash­es up on the screen—a 205 area code. My heart stut­ters. It could be Detec­tive Lau­rent. It could be the police say­ing they’ve found something—something that makes all the casse­role-bear­ing kind­ness van­ish like smoke. But when I answer, it’s worse. It’s John Rivers.

His voice is like nails on a chalk­board, smooth but sharp. “The church is rais­ing mon­ey for a new sound sys­tem,” he says, not both­er­ing with pre­tense. I real­ize immediately—it’s not a request. It’s a demand, dis­guised in a smirk. He’s lever­ag­ing my fear, hop­ing to squeeze a few hun­dred dol­lars out of my pan­ic.

“You and your boyfriend are all over the paper,” he adds, tone casu­al but soaked in threat. “Thought maybe you’d want to stay out of it.”

The way he says “you and your boyfriend” makes my skin crawl. He doesn’t say Eddie’s name, but the impli­ca­tion is clear: he’s remind­ing me how pre­car­i­ous all of this is. One word from him, and my entire new life could unrav­el.

I hang up the phone with trem­bling fin­gers, already mov­ing toward my purse to find my check­book. I tell myself this is the last time. That I’m buy­ing silence, not feed­ing the mon­ster. But deep down, I know bet­ter. Black­mail nev­er ends on a hand­shake.

That evening, I pour a glass of wine and sit by the win­dow. The storm that had threat­ened ear­li­er final­ly breaks open, soft rain trick­ling down the panes. I watch the droplets race each oth­er, my mind rac­ing with them. If Emi­ly and Camp­bell are being ques­tioned, then I can’t be far behind. My sto­ry has to hold. My nerves have to stay calm. Because if I falter—if I hes­i­tate even once—everything I’ve built will come crash­ing down.

When Eddie walks in, he doesn’t say much, just kiss­es my tem­ple and pours him­self a drink. The silence between us isn’t strained, exact­ly, but it’s dense—full of things nei­ther of us is will­ing to name. He thinks we’re final­ly safe, that with Tripp arrest­ed, the dan­ger has passed. I wish I could believe him.

But safe­ty, like casseroles, has an expi­ra­tion date. And secrets always rot from the inside first.