Chap­ter 23 begins with a famil­iar south­ern greeting—“Girl, I swear you’ve got­ten even skinnier!”—spoken in a tone meant to flat­ter but laced with pres­sure. The sum­mer evening is sti­fling, and though the church court­yard looks charm­ing under the fad­ing light, I can’t shake the sen­sa­tion of being all wrong. Dressed in a sleek black dress that once felt ele­gant, I now feel like an out­sider among a sea of pas­tel prints and flo­ral skirts. Emily’s com­pli­ment floats in the air as I try not to glare at Eddie’s back. He said noth­ing about my dress choice, but sure­ly he knew. I cling to the excuse that I’m a new­com­er in this social order, still learn­ing the unwrit­ten codes.

We drift through the crowd, lemon­ade in hand, pre­tend­ing every­thing is fine. Eddie makes small talk with the rev­erend, while I trail behind Emi­ly, grate­ful she hasn’t once brought up my old job. I’d stolen from her—little things, pieces of her life—and still she greets me with warmth, as though we’re real friends. That should make me feel guilty, but instead it makes me cau­tious. As if her kind­ness is a test I’m bound to fail. Inside the Fam­i­ly Life Cen­ter, auc­tion items glim­mer under flu­o­res­cent lights, but most of the con­gre­ga­tion lingers in the court­yard. It’s too pret­ty out here, too humid, and every­one wants to be seen.

And then every­thing shifts. Car­o­line arrives in a flur­ry of whis­pers and ten­sion, her fin­gers dig­ging into my arm. “Tripp Ingra­ham has been arrest­ed,” she hiss­es. That name lands like a stone in my chest. Emily’s already scrolling her phone, con­firm­ing the rumor, and across the court­yard I see Eddie turn toward me. The expres­sion on his face—flat, unreadable—tells me every­thing. He knew. And he’s relieved.

Back home, the silence between us is heavy. Eddie con­firms what I’ve already heard—Tripp was tak­en into cus­tody, some­thing to do with the autop­sy. No one knows specifics. I head to the bath­room to show­er, strip­ping off my dress and step­ping under the scald­ing water like I’m try­ing to cleanse more than just sweat. When I emerge, steam fogs the mir­ror and my reflec­tion feels unfa­mil­iar. I whis­per affir­ma­tions to myself—“You’re fine, you’re safe”—but I’m not sure I believe them.

Eddie enters the bath­room and begins undress­ing, mov­ing with a prac­ticed ease I’ve always admired. He’s beau­ti­ful in a way that used to make me ache. Now, I just watch, detached, comb­ing my hair in silence until he asks the ques­tion I’ve been dread­ing. “Were you scared of me?” The words are sim­ple, but his voice is low and tight, and I freeze. Then comes the fol­low-up: “Did you think I killed them?”

For a moment, I try the usu­al tactics—soft voice, low­ered lashes—but they don’t land. So I tell the truth. “Yes. I did.” The air between us stills. Then he exhales and says, “At least you’re hon­est.” I take his wrist, low­er­ing his arms, try­ing to pull us back togeth­er. I apol­o­gize. Sin­cere­ly. For doubt­ing him. For not trust­ing him with my fears.

And part of me means it. But anoth­er part knows I’m lying through my teeth. I’ve lied to every­one here, espe­cial­ly him. He’s the one who gave me a new life, a new name, and I’ve spent months pre­tend­ing I belong. Pre­tend­ing I deserve it. And yet, hear­ing Eddie mur­mur, “It’s alright,” as he pulls me into a hug almost con­vinces me that it could be. That maybe we real­ly could make this work.

As I press my fore­head to his chest, I ask him if he thinks it was real­ly Tripp. I want him to say yes, with con­vic­tion. To tell me that jus­tice is sim­ple, clean, and done. But instead, he hes­i­tates. “I don’t want to think he could’ve done it,” he says. He talks about golf, about drink­ing, about fights with Blanche. I hear the doubt in his voice. And I can’t help but feel it too.

Because the truth is, none of this feels fin­ished. Arrest­ing Tripp doesn’t explain the mes­sages. The miss­ing hours. The strange, echo­ing nois­es in the house. Something’s still wrong. Something’s still hid­ing in plain sight. And no mat­ter how many church func­tions I attend, or how many casseroles I bake, or how often I tell myself I’m safe—deep down, I know I’m still wait­ing for the real storm to come.