Chap­ter 24 begins with an inno­cent question—“Are you okay?”—but what fol­lows reveals how far from okay things real­ly are. The days have become heavy with heat, but my morn­ing jogs bring a short-lived clar­i­ty, the kind that comes from move­ment and qui­et. I like the ear­ly hours, before the world ful­ly wakes, before the pre­tense sets in. The air is still, the sun soft, and for a few moments, I feel like myself again—whoever that’s becom­ing. My runs some­times cross paths with Emi­ly and Camp­bell. Emi­ly always waves, but Campbell’s smile feels like it’s being pulled too tight­ly across her face, as if she’s clench­ing some­thing behind her teeth. It makes me won­der if she sus­pects some­thing. Or knows more than she’s let­ting on.

The wed­ding dress hangs upstairs, still wrapped in plas­tic, its ele­gance now tinged with unease. I’d bought it in a rush of opti­mism, back when every­thing with Eddie felt like a fairy­tale. Now, even the small­est sound in the house makes me tense. This morn­ing, I heard a dull thump—like the one I remem­ber from the night the news came about Blanche. My heart lurched, even though I knew it was prob­a­bly noth­ing. Or at least, I told myself that. After­ward, I called Eddie. Just hear­ing his voice made the world feel less sharp. He always sounds so sure. So steady. But late­ly, I’ve start­ed to won­der if that steadi­ness is real, or if it’s anoth­er performance—just like every­thing else in Thorn­field Estates.

My thoughts keep cir­cling back to Tripp. He’s still loung­ing in his house, drink­ing on the porch, mak­ing phone calls like his life hasn’t just been upend­ed by a mur­der charge. He killed her. Or at least, that’s what the evi­dence sug­gests. A ham­mer was pur­chased. A woman was found with a shat­tered skull. And yet, Tripp is still free. Still golf­ing, still being greet­ed like a mis­un­der­stood neigh­bor instead of a pos­si­ble killer. I think about what would’ve hap­pened if it were me. A woman with my back­ground, my past. I wouldn’t have been sip­ping cock­tails and call­ing lawyers from my liv­ing room. I’d be in a jump­suit, wait­ing behind bars for a court date I’d nev­er afford.

Eddie’s take on the whole thing is both cyn­i­cal and infu­ri­at­ing. “This is Alaba­ma,” he says, shrug­ging. “Mon­ey buys for­give­ness. Or at least, delay.” He’s not wrong, but the way he says it, so casu­al­ly, so detached—it gnaws at me. It makes me feel like maybe he under­stands this sys­tem too well. Like he’s speak­ing from expe­ri­ence. I keep fol­low­ing every arti­cle, every update on Tripp’s case. I tell myself it’s because I care about jus­tice, about Blanche. But deep down, I know it’s some­thing dark­er. I want to see what hap­pens to a man like that. I want to know if the rules ever actu­al­ly apply.

There’s still no body con­firmed for Bea. Her dis­ap­pear­ance is a ghost shad­ow­ing every­thing else, and peo­ple don’t talk about her any­more. Not real­ly. It’s eas­i­er to pre­tend she nev­er exist­ed. Just anoth­er South­ern woman who drift­ed out of her own life one day and nev­er came back. But I can’t for­get her. Not when I’m liv­ing in her house, sur­round­ed by her fur­ni­ture, and try­ing to plan a wed­ding in the space she once ruled. It makes me won­der if hous­es remem­ber the peo­ple they belonged to. If walls can hold secrets, if floor­boards can echo foot­steps that aren’t mine.

Late at night, the ten­sion coils tighter. The sounds, the shad­ows, the emp­ty rooms—it all feels like a warn­ing. The oth­er night, I caught myself lock­ing the bath­room door behind me, even though I was alone. Even though no one was home but me and Adele. When Eddie called, I told him I’d just been feel­ing off. He offered to come home ear­ly, but I said no. I need him to believe I’m okay. Because if he thinks I’m not, every­thing might unrav­el.

So I smile when peo­ple ask how the wed­ding plan­ning is going. I nod when they com­ment on how lucky I am. I pre­tend I don’t hear the things they say about Blanche or Tripp or Bea when they think I’ve stepped away. But under­neath the rou­tine and the rosé and the per­fect­ly man­i­cured lawns, some­thing is rot­ting. And I think I’m start­ing to smell it.