Chap­ter 22 begins with mount­ing ten­sion as I fall into a pat­tern I rec­og­nize too well—restless pac­ing, open­ing doors for no rea­son, search­ing for things that can’t be seen but are deeply felt. Since Eddie brought me to the lake house, some­thing in me hasn’t set­tled. A hol­low kind of lone­li­ness creeps in, curl­ing around my spine, mak­ing me feel more like a shad­ow in Thorn­field Estates than some­one who actu­al­ly belongs here. I catch myself imag­in­ing how absurd it would sound to tell Emi­ly or Camp­bell about what real­ly hap­pened there. “Hey girls, Eddie casu­al­ly showed me the house where his wife might have died. Total­ly nor­mal, right?”

Instead, I keep the words buried, even as I notice whis­pers fol­low­ing me. At Roast­ed, two old­er women sip cof­fee and mur­mur about Bea, spec­u­lat­ing on whether the killer meant to take out one woman or both. Their casu­al tone—that awful assump­tion that “it always is” the husband—crawls under my skin. I won­der, do they mean Tripp? Or Eddie? One is about to be my hus­band, and yet both names float through con­ver­sa­tions like storm clouds with no clear source. My soy hazel­nut lat­te grows cold while I lis­ten, unno­ticed.

The uncer­tain­ty gnaws at me until I do some­thing reckless—I text Tripp Ingra­ham. I tell myself it’s just for clar­i­ty, to learn the truth, but I know bet­ter. We meet at a pub I’ve nev­er been to, the kind of place I’d usu­al­ly avoid, espe­cial­ly since it reeks of old wood and old­er regrets. I dress plainly—no flashy jew­el­ry, no South­ern Manors polish—just a sim­ple beige dress that makes me look meek. Tripp arrives smug, greasy con­fi­dence wrapped in worn flan­nel and beer breath. “So,” he says, “you here to ask if Eddie and Blanche were screw­ing?”

His blunt­ness jolts me. I wasn’t expect­ing him to say it out loud, even if I’ve been think­ing about it con­stant­ly. I try to steer us back on course, say­ing I just want to know how he’s doing, pre­tend­ing con­cern. But Tripp’s not fooled. He reads between the lines, maybe too eas­i­ly, and sud­den­ly I’m not the only one fish­ing for answers. He con­fess­es that he doesn’t believe there was any­thing between Eddie and Blanche—not real­ly. “Blanche was loy­al,” he says. “Even when she shouldn’t have been.”

But his bit­ter­ness returns quick­ly. “Bea took her whole life,” he mut­ters. “And now they’re both at the bot­tom of a lake.” The way he says it makes me shiv­er, but the con­ver­sa­tion drifts from rev­e­la­tion to res­ig­na­tion, and I can tell he’s fin­ished talk­ing. What­ev­er he knew, I’ve squeezed what I can from him.

Back at home, I dive into Face­book pro­files, search­ing for images, any­thing to link Blanche and Eddie more inti­mate­ly. But her page is gone, deac­ti­vat­ed or scrubbed by fam­i­ly, and any pic­tures she’s tagged in are dead ends. I’ve been so focused on Bea, con­vinced she held all the answers, but now I real­ize I’ve over­looked Blanche—the woman at the cen­ter of every­thing. That over­sight may have cost me more than I know.

Lat­er, I’m soak­ing in the tub when I hear Eddie’s foot­steps down the hall. I brace myself, pre­tend­ing calm. But he doesn’t greet me. Instead, he says, “Why did you have lunch with Tripp Ingra­ham today?” My stom­ach knots, heart ham­mer­ing in my chest. I ask how he knows, and regret it instant­ly. Thorn­field may be glossy on the sur­face, but its res­i­dents have noth­ing bet­ter to do than watch, whis­per, and report.

Eddie steps clos­er, and for the first time, I feel the sheer size of him as a threat, not a com­fort. He accus­es me of slip­ping cash to some­one I should have cut off. I’m too stunned to lie. He knows about John. About the black­mail. About Phoenix. He even has the number—written down, tucked away in his wal­let all this time. “You know why I nev­er called it?” he says. “Because I trust you, Janie.”

That should feel reas­sur­ing. It doesn’t. I sit on the edge of the tub, drip­ping and cold, hold­ing a piece of paper that might as well be a tick­ing bomb. But it’s not the num­ber that shakes me. It’s the way Eddie looked at me when he said, That’s what you do when peo­ple threat­en you.

Because that wasn’t a sug­ges­tion.
It was a rule.