Chap­ter 20 begins with a sug­ges­tion that feels more like a test—an invi­ta­tion wrapped in non­cha­lance. Eddie, pour­ing cof­fee in the morn­ing light, pro­pos­es a week­end at the lake, speak­ing casu­al­ly as though the place didn’t car­ry the weight of two deaths. The nar­ra­tor, mid-page in a bridal mag­a­zine, is momen­tar­i­ly thrown. It’s not just the idea of going there—it’s what it might reveal. Her instincts tight­en, warn­ing her there’s some­thing he’s not say­ing, but she agrees any­way, part­ly from curios­i­ty, part­ly from fear of what her refusal might pro­voke.

Their dri­ve to Smith Lake starts light­heart­ed enough. Rur­al Alaba­ma rolls past the car win­dows, and lunch in Jasper offers a glimpse of a relaxed, charm­ing Eddie. He fits in so seam­less­ly it’s unnerving—equally at home in design­er suits and bar­be­cue joints. The nar­ra­tor plays along, try­ing to enjoy the ease between them, but unease sim­mers just beneath her smile. When they arrive at the lake house, the scenery turns serene and unnerv­ing­ly still. The lake glis­tens in the sun, but its beau­ty feels decep­tive, a veneer over some­thing heavy and unre­solved.

Inside, the house is designed to feel rus­tic, mas­cu­line, inten­tion­al­ly dif­fer­ent from the refined ele­gance of their home in Thorn­field Estates. Dark wood, nau­ti­cal accents, and heavy fur­ni­ture dom­i­nate the space. Bea may have designed it, but it feels like she was cre­at­ing an image of Eddie—not her­self. That real­iza­tion unset­tles the nar­ra­tor. There’s a famil­iar­i­ty here that aligns too per­fect­ly with Eddie’s pref­er­ences, which sug­gests Bea had been try­ing to mold something—or someone—into place. And while the decor seems benign, it hints at deep­er attempts to con­trol or pre­serve parts of their mar­riage.

Lat­er, Eddie opens up unex­pect­ed­ly, his voice low and reflec­tive as he watch­es the water. The qui­et around the lake, once peace­ful, now feels oppres­sive. He talks about the lake’s depth, the under­wa­ter for­est left behind when the area was flood­ed. The idea of trees still stand­ing beneath the sur­face, untouched and hid­den, becomes a metaphor for every­thing left unsaid between them. The nar­ra­tor imag­ines Bea’s body caught in those sub­merged branch­es, a haunt­ing pic­ture that lingers long after the con­ver­sa­tion ends.

As the evening sets in, the mood remains sub­dued. The still­ness of the lake wraps around the house like a blan­ket, mak­ing every creak and breeze feel ampli­fied. While Eddie pre­pares din­ner, the nar­ra­tor walks out to the dock alone. She watch­es the gen­tle rip­ple of the water and tries to pic­ture how things might have unfold­ed that night—how two women end­ed up dead in a place this calm. It doesn’t feel like a crime scene. And maybe that’s what makes it so ter­ri­fy­ing.

Back inside, they eat by the win­dow, the silence between them thick­er than before. Eddie talks about how he didn’t sleep for weeks after it hap­pened. About how every night, he imag­ined the noise Bea might’ve made as she fell, the splash, the last breath. The nar­ra­tor lis­tens but says lit­tle. She doesn’t know whether to feel sor­ry for him or scared of him. Maybe both.

Lat­er, as she lies in the gue­stroom bed star­ing at the wood­en beams above, she replays every word of their din­ner. Every pause. Every look. It’s not what Eddie says that unnerves her most—it’s what he doesn’t. There’s no men­tion of Blanche, no direct descrip­tion of what hap­pened that night, no con­crete answers. Just mur­murs about dark­ness, trees, and silence.

Before she drifts off, she won­ders if Eddie brought her here to test her loy­al­ty or to see if she’d ask too many ques­tions. Either way, she sens­es that some­thing about this trip isn’t about relax­ation. It’s about con­trol. And that real­iza­tion chills her far more than the deep waters out­side ever could.