Part VI: Bea begins with a famil­iar sensation—the pres­ence of Eddie beside me again, his thigh pressed close and the scent of mint on his breath. It should have made me recoil, think­ing of what he’s done, but instead, it made the next move eas­i­er. Know­ing he came here expect­ing inti­ma­cy gave me the pow­er I need­ed. I’d planned for this. Brushed my hair until it shined, pinched col­or into my cheeks, rehearsed how I’d lean in. My sur­vival now depend­ed on remind­ing him of the ver­sion of me he first loved. The ver­sion he mar­ried. If I could keep him teth­ered to that mem­o­ry, I might just stay alive.

Slid­ing my hand into his, I focused on the familiar—his cal­loused skin, the com­fort of shared his­to­ry. I told myself not to think about Blanche, not to let her name sur­face in my mind, even as the man who mur­dered her sat across from me. Instead, I remem­bered how much I once want­ed him. That elec­tric hunger, the des­per­ate way I used to crave his touch, his atten­tion. It wasn’t a lie back then. I just had to tap into that again. And as I moved clos­er, kissed him the way I had in Hawaii, it came back sur­pris­ing­ly fast. My lips knew their way. My body respond­ed like it always had. For a few min­utes, I believed it too.

But it wasn’t long before real­i­ty pushed its way in. Eddie broke the kiss, face red, breath shal­low. He stood so quick­ly it star­tled me. The shame on his face cut through my plan. He said he shouldn’t have come, and my heart dropped. I reached for him, gen­tly hold­ing his wrist, try­ing to soothe his pan­ic. The ener­gy in the room snapped tight, like a thread ready to break. But I didn’t let go. I told him it was okay. That I want­ed him. That I still loved him. He kissed me again—deeply this time. And then it hap­pened. Bod­ies tan­gled, words for­got­ten, bound­aries blurred. Read­er, I fucked him.

After­ward, when our breath­ing slowed, I thought maybe I’d won. I traced lazy cir­cles on his chest, whis­per­ing that I loved him, that I’d nev­er hurt him. I didn’t say the oth­er part out loud—that if he let me go, I’d nev­er tell. I thought I was giv­ing him reas­sur­ance. But instead, I’d pushed too far. Eddie pulled away, cold now, dis­tant. He got dressed silent­ly, and this time, he left with­out look­ing back. I stayed in the bed, furi­ous with myself for mis­cal­cu­lat­ing, won­der­ing how long it would take to earn his trust again.

The mem­o­ry of Eddie and Blanche laugh­ing togeth­er over lunch still haunt­ed me. That day in the vil­lage, I was just sup­posed to browse store win­dows, maybe scout a new loca­tion for a South­ern Manors dis­play. Instead, I saw them—my hus­band and my best friend—smiling over sal­ad like they were co-stars in a phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal ad. It wasn’t just their close­ness. It was the vis­i­bil­i­ty. Their ease with being seen. The fury that surged in me had noth­ing to do with jeal­ousy. It was about humil­i­a­tion. About the way they made me small.

I crossed the street before I could stop myself, appear­ing at their table with a bright­ness I didn’t feel. Their star­tled faces almost made the moment worth it. I pre­tend­ed not to notice the blue­prints spread out between them—an inno­cent work meet­ing, they’d say. But I knew bet­ter. Blanche had been invit­ing Eddie into her house, her plans, her wine. She’d even used my own back porch as a show­room, show­ing Eddie a Pin­ter­est board and call­ing it a dream. He just smiled. Played along. He always did.

Lat­er, while we made din­ner, Eddie told me I’d embar­rassed myself. His words came sharp, slicked with con­de­scen­sion. I said noth­ing. I knew silence would pro­voke him more. And it did. He walked out with my wine glass in hand, the screen door slam­ming behind him. We didn’t talk about it again, but I saw it in Blanche’s face the next time we had cof­fee. The smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The apol­o­gy that wasn’t real­ly one.

“You always over­re­act, Bea,” she said, scrap­ing whipped cream from her drink like I was the one who need­ed to be han­dled del­i­cate­ly. I let the com­ment hang in the air, mem­o­riz­ing her tone. She didn’t think she’d done any­thing wrong. She thought I was the prob­lem. And maybe, to her, I was. But two days lat­er, when I picked up Eddie’s phone and saw a self­ie from Blanche—just her face, exag­ger­at­ed frown, noth­ing sexy—I knew every­thing I need­ed to. It wasn’t about what she wore or said. It was about access. About inti­ma­cy. And she’d crossed a line.

That pho­to, inno­cent on the sur­face, cracked some­thing open in me. It wasn’t about whether they’d slept togeth­er. It was about the cer­tain­ty that they could. That they might. And that nei­ther of them feared what I might do if I found out. I was already the joke at the table, the over­re­ac­tor, the one drink­ing too much and talk­ing too lit­tle. But now, I had clar­i­ty. And maybe that was more dan­ger­ous than anger.

Because clar­i­ty comes with pur­pose. And pur­pose always leads to action.