Chap­ter 21 begins with a veneer of nor­mal­cy, the key­word intro­duc­ing a chap­ter that swings rapid­ly from cozy calm to point­ed dis­com­fort. After a pleas­ant din­ner, con­ver­sa­tion flows eas­i­ly, wine loosens their smiles, and the glow of shared laugh­ter briefly restores the illu­sion of har­mo­ny. But that peace begins to erode the moment they step back into the house. Eddie’s pos­ture shifts—his jaw tight­ens, his voice flattens—and the con­nec­tion they shared at din­ner slips away. Rather than join the nar­ra­tor in the liv­ing room, he pours him­self anoth­er drink and heads out back, leav­ing her to won­der what soured his mood so quick­ly.

Lat­er that night, the nar­ra­tor wakes to find the oth­er side of the bed still emp­ty. Curi­ous, she goes search­ing and dis­cov­ers Eddie out­side, fum­bling near the boathouse with a flash­light. He claims he’s look­ing for a key he mis­placed, mut­ter­ing about need­ing to check some­thing in the shed. His tone is strained, his words too casu­al. There’s no real urgency behind his expla­na­tion, and yet the task seems to car­ry weight. The nar­ra­tor offers to help, but he brush­es her off, insist­ing it’s noth­ing. Watch­ing him from the porch, she notices the way his shoul­ders slump slightly—an unguard­ed moment of defeat or regret, perhaps—but when he turns to face her again, that moment is gone.

Back in the bed­room, she lies awake, turn­ing over every strange detail in her mind. There’s a lin­ger­ing chill in the room, not from the air but from the sus­pi­cion that some­thing just beneath the sur­face is being hid­den. Eddie’s behav­ior that night scratch­es at her peace. Why now? Why that key? She won­ders if it’s con­nect­ed to the oth­er moments that haven’t added up—the quick shifts in his mood, the unfin­ished sto­ries about Bea, the silence that fills the gaps in their con­ver­sa­tions.

The next day brings no answers, only new com­pli­ca­tions. As she scrolls through her inbox, sip­ping her cof­fee, Eddie appears in the door­way, his lap­top in hand and his expres­sion unread­able. He asks, care­ful­ly but not casu­al­ly, about sev­er­al unex­pect­ed with­drawals from their shared account. Her heart skips, but she keeps her expres­sion neu­tral, claim­ing they’re for wed­ding preparations—dress fit­tings, ven­dor deposits, deposits she can’t real­ly prove. He doesn’t press for receipts but sug­gests she use a new cred­it card instead, one he hands her right there at the kitchen island.

The moment feels trans­ac­tion­al, not gen­er­ous. Like a way to keep tabs under the guise of con­ve­nience. She nods, smiles, and accepts it, but inside, there’s a tight­en­ing. Eddie nev­er direct­ly accus­es her, but the ques­tion was clear. He doesn’t trust her ful­ly, just like she doesn’t trust him. And yet they’re plan­ning a life togeth­er, invit­ing guests, choos­ing cake fla­vors. The con­tra­dic­tion of it all set­tles heav­i­ly on her shoul­ders.

Lat­er that after­noon, the nar­ra­tor sits alone, look­ing out at the lake from the back deck, the same view that once felt like a promise of peace. Now, every gen­tle rip­ple car­ries a whis­per of secrets. She replays the con­ver­sa­tion, the way he looked at her, and the odd tim­ing of the bank issue. Eddie’s past—especially his con­nec­tion to Blanche and Bea—casts a long shad­ow, one that length­ens with every eva­sive smile and vague expla­na­tion.

She tries to dis­miss the thoughts. Tells her­self every­one has doubts. But it’s get­ting hard­er to pre­tend she hasn’t seen the cracks form­ing in the pic­ture-per­fect sur­face of their life. Trust is being test­ed in qui­et ways, in late-night dis­ap­pear­ances, in whis­pered accu­sa­tions, in finan­cial over­sight masked as sup­port.

And as the day slips into dusk, she won­ders what else Eddie is hiding—what else lies locked behind doors, or per­haps, float­ing beneath still waters just out of reach.