Chap­ter 35 — Chap­ter 35 begins with shock, not from vio­lence, but from the unex­pect­ed appear­ance of some­one long pre­sumed dead. After bare­ly escap­ing Eddie’s vio­lent outburst—where a sil­ver pineap­ple became a weapon—the pro­tag­o­nist finds her­self face-to-face with Bea Rochester. Not only is Bea very much alive, she seems curi­ous­ly unfazed by the rev­e­la­tion that her hus­band tried to kill some­one else. Calm­ly request­ing wine as if host­ing a rou­tine din­ner par­ty, Bea leads them into the kitchen. Her demeanor is col­lect­ed, even grace­ful, a woman com­plete­ly at home in a space the pro­tag­o­nist had only bor­rowed. Every ges­ture, from choos­ing the right bot­tle to pour­ing the glass­es, rein­forces that this was always Bea’s house—her life.

The storm out­side mir­rors the ten­sion between them, cre­at­ing a cin­e­mat­ic back­drop as they sit in the goth­ic din­ing room, can­dles flick­er­ing and wine glass­es full. Bea and the pro­tag­o­nist could almost be mis­tak­en for queens of some dark fairy tale, meet­ing to set­tle a throne. As they drink, Bea reveals what she knows—or claims to know—about Eddie’s deceit, infi­deli­ties, and the tan­gled lies con­nect­ing them all. She speaks of Eddie’s manip­u­la­tion, sug­gest­ing that both she and the pro­tag­o­nist had been drawn into his schemes. Blanche’s name sur­faces, not as a foot­note, but as the cen­ter of a dead­ly nar­ra­tive. Bea implies that Blanche’s death was not an acci­dent and that her own con­fine­ment was part of Eddie’s twist­ed plan.

The pro­tag­o­nist lis­tens, but doubt sim­mers beneath the sur­face. Bea’s sto­ry, while con­fi­dent and well-rehearsed, doesn’t ful­ly hold togeth­er. Cer­tain details don’t sit right, and her seem­ing­ly casu­al tone only rais­es more ques­tions. The pro­tag­o­nist observes every inflec­tion in Bea’s voice, each pause or omis­sion. It’s not just the trau­ma or the alcohol—something doesn’t add up. Could Bea be twist­ing the truth to suit her own ver­sion of events? As these thoughts stir, the pro­tag­o­nist also reflects on how eas­i­ly appear­ances had fooled her before. It’s hard to tell where truth ends and per­for­mance begins in this house built on secrets.

In this moment, the pro­tag­o­nist real­izes she’s not just a bystander in Eddie and Bea’s dra­ma. She’s become entan­gled in a deep­er history—one lay­ered in betray­al, manip­u­la­tion, and pow­er plays. Bea’s pol­ished calm and enig­mat­ic sto­ry­telling mask motives that remain unclear. But even as doubt creeps in, the pro­tag­o­nist can’t ignore the weight of Bea’s words. If any part of what she said is true, then every­thing the pro­tag­o­nist thought she under­stood about Eddie—his charm, his lies, his love—has been poi­soned by intent. And if Bea is lying, then her sur­vival, and the vio­lence she claims to have endured, may not be what it seems either.

What adds a chill­ing depth to this chap­ter is how both women nav­i­gate their trau­ma through rit­u­al: the wine, the storm, the set­ting of a table nei­ther of them ful­ly owns any­more. It’s a nego­ti­a­tion of con­trol. Bea, by act­ing unboth­ered, regains pow­er. The pro­tag­o­nist, by ask­ing care­ful ques­tions, reclaims her agency. But pow­er here is flu­id, trad­ed silent­ly between them in glances, sips, and sub­tle shifts in tone. They are survivors—different in their meth­ods, but alike in the qui­et under­stand­ing that truth won’t come eas­i­ly, and safe­ty might be an illu­sion.

A major theme woven through their inter­ac­tion is the role of per­for­mance in sur­vival. Bea is the­atri­cal, but cal­cu­lat­ed. The pro­tag­o­nist, though shak­en, has begun to see the strength in peel­ing back lay­ers rather than adding more. She notes how Bea’s con­trol fal­ters just slight­ly when details don’t line up, and in that flick­er, there is an opening—a pos­si­ble glimpse at some­thing raw and unscript­ed. The dynam­ic has shift­ed. No longer just a guest, the pro­tag­o­nist now sees her­self as part of a larg­er, dark­er game. Not a pawn, per­haps not even a queen, but some­thing alto­geth­er dif­fer­ent.

By the end of the con­ver­sa­tion, the wine is most­ly gone, but the real intox­i­ca­tion has come from the rev­e­la­tions. Whether or not Bea is telling the truth, the dam­age has already been done. The pro­tag­o­nist can no longer pre­tend inno­cence. She is impli­cat­ed now, pulled deep­er into the under­cur­rent of betray­al, and left to decide how much of Bea’s sto­ry she’s will­ing to car­ry. As the chap­ter clos­es, the house creaks under the pres­sure of silence and secrets. And above all, one thing is clear—none of them, not even the sup­pos­ed­ly dead, are fin­ished play­ing their part.