Chap­ter XVII – Dawn O’Hara, The Girl Who Laughed Trashed opens with a qui­et tri­umph quick­ly shad­owed by doubt. Dawn has just sent her com­plet­ed man­u­script to the pub­lish­er, a cul­mi­na­tion of effort and late nights. Yet instead of relief, she feels exposed, replay­ing every word, cer­tain she could have made it bet­ter. Only a few peo­ple even knew of her book, mak­ing her vul­ner­a­ble in a strange­ly pri­vate way. Black­ie, ever her con­fi­dant, teas­es her gen­tly, their ban­ter a soft reprieve from the self-crit­i­cism that always fol­lows cre­ative effort. Their con­ver­sa­tion drifts to his plans for a well-earned vaca­tion, but some­thing in his tone feels off. Dawn notices his quiet­ness, a pause too long, a sen­tence that fal­ters.

Lat­er, an unex­pect­ed call from Von Ger­hard breaks the moment, pulling Dawn toward a dif­fer­ent kind of con­ver­sa­tion. He pro­pos­es a sup­per out­ing, hint­ing there’s some­thing impor­tant to share. The fol­low­ing day’s weath­er is strange­ly hot, the kind that makes every breath feel heav­ier. As she dress­es for their dri­ve, Dawn sens­es a shift—something in the air, in his voice, in her­self. Their jour­ney to the lake is beau­ti­ful, marked by bloom­ing trees and laugh­ter from near­by fam­i­lies. But the calm of the scene doesn’t set­tle her nerves. A storm brews beneath the sur­face, though the sky remains clear. When they final­ly sit beneath the trees, away from the noisy crowd, Dawn braces her­self.

Von Ger­hard, always mea­sured and com­posed, looks at her with a seri­ous­ness she hasn’t seen before. He reveals that Peter Orme, once locked away by mad­ness, is now declared sane—and gone. Released. No longer watched. The words land with weight. Dawn, who had built her life on the qui­et safe­ty his absence gave, now sees her world begin to unspool. Her thoughts scat­ter. Peter’s return isn’t just a pos­si­bil­i­ty; it’s a storm approach­ing with no fore­cast. The man she had once loved, suf­fered for, and feared, might step back into her life with­out warn­ing. Von Ger­hard says he’ll stay—postponing his depar­ture to Vien­na to sup­port her—but even that reas­sur­ance can’t calm the dread swelling inside her.

The irony of the set­ting is sharp. Around them, music floats and cou­ples dance, unaware of the grav­i­ty sit­ting at their table. Dawn forces a smile, but her chest tight­ens. Free­dom had felt with­in reach. The man­u­script. The com­pan­ion­ship. The sense of nor­mal­cy. Now, all of it feels tem­po­rary. The ground beneath her starts to feel bor­rowed. She tries to imag­ine how she will face Peter, what words she might say. But noth­ing comes. Only the mem­o­ry of his voice and the weight of every­thing she endured. Her stom­ach churns as joy drains from the evening.

On the dri­ve home, the silence grows loud­er. Dawn stares out the win­dow while Von Ger­hard nav­i­gates the road with qui­et focus. Her thoughts twist through fear and con­fu­sion. For months, she lived under the belief that Peter’s pres­ence had been safe­ly walled away. Now, the idea of him walk­ing free, search­ing, remembering—it shat­ters the frag­ile peace she had carved out. Von Ger­hard glances at her, but says lit­tle, respect­ing the silence as a space she needs. Each mile back feels heav­ier. The car moves for­ward, but her mind loops back, trapped in the shad­ows of what was and what could return.

As she reach­es her apart­ment, the famil­iar walls no longer feel safe. She knows the days ahead will demand strength she’s not sure she has. Peter’s return is more than a threat to her comfort—it’s a chal­lenge to her iden­ti­ty. Who is she now? The woman who once wait­ed and endured, or some­one who built some­thing new from the ash­es of that pain? Von Ger­hard’s pres­ence offers com­fort, but this bat­tle will be hers to face. The chap­ter ends with­out clar­i­ty, only ques­tions. It cap­tures the way old wounds can reopen when least expect­ed, and how even in moments of beau­ty, fear can root itself deeply in the heart.