Chap­ter 25 opens with the kind of small, sub­ur­ban rit­u­al I nev­er imag­ined myself par­tic­i­pat­ing in: a morn­ing com­mit­tee meet­ing. As I walk into Roast­ed, the local cof­fee shop where Thornfield’s women hold court, I feel odd­ly com­posed. The pen­cil skirt and pink blouse are a far cry from the dog-walk­ing uni­form I used to wear in this very neigh­bor­hood. I set­tle in next to Camp­bell and Emi­ly, both dressed in match­ing shades of ath­leisure that scream effort­less wealth. Yet, for the first time, I don’t feel com­plete­ly out of place. My binder is col­or-cod­ed and filled with clip­pings from gar­den mag­a­zines. Emi­ly prais­es my orga­ni­za­tion, and I smile, bask­ing in the glow of per­for­ma­tive belong­ing. I don’t men­tion how late I was up putting it togeth­er, or the odd nois­es from upstairs that I’ve chalked up to an over­ac­tive imagination—or pests, if I’m lucky.

As I open the binder to explain ideas for spruc­ing up the front beds, my ring catch­es the light and draws atten­tion just as I’d hoped. Camp­bell imme­di­ate­ly asks about the wed­ding. I say we haven’t set a date, blam­ing the delays on every­thing hap­pen­ing with Tripp. It’s par­tial­ly true. Tripp’s name hangs in the air like sta­t­ic. Emi­ly leans in, voice low­ered, and men­tions that the police dis­cov­ered Tripp had been at the lake. That part is new. Campbell’s shock is genuine—she even knocks the table with her knee, rat­tling the sil­ver­ware. There’s a moment of silence, and I can feel their atten­tion sharp­en.

Try­ing to keep my tone casu­al, I spec­u­late that the police must’ve found receipts or maybe a wit­ness. I even laugh a lit­tle when Emi­ly quips about Kar­dashi­an-style “receipts,” but my stomach’s in knots. When Camp­bell whis­pers, “So… he real­ly did it?” I react too quick­ly, too strong­ly. My “of course he did” lands with a thud, and they both look at me. I fum­ble to recov­er, insist­ing the police wouldn’t arrest him unless they were sure. It’s a weak deflec­tion, but it does the job—for now. Still, I feel the ener­gy shift. Camp­bell taps her nail against the table, eyes dis­tant, then mur­murs that Tripp wasn’t violent—just slop­py, some­times drunk, but not dan­ger­ous.

Emi­ly cuts in, remind­ing us they’d been hav­ing prob­lems. Their looks, aimed at me and then at each oth­er, say more than their words. I push gen­tly, pre­tend­ing to be curi­ous, play­ing dumb: “Tripp said there were rumors about Blanche and Eddie…” Their expres­sions fal­ter for a sec­ond. Then Emi­ly shrugs, almost bored. “They were togeth­er a lot,” she says. “And Bea was nev­er around.” Camp­bell nods, con­firm­ing that Bea had all but van­ished in the months before it all fell apart.

They remem­ber Bea as some­one who used to show up. She planned events, host­ed par­ties, offered advice. Then, slow­ly, she stopped. Emi­ly hints that some­thing was going on long before Blanche died—something tied to Bea’s moth­er, maybe, and not at all juicy. But I don’t buy that. Tripp had men­tioned ten­sion between the two women. Now I hear the same echo from them. I can’t help think­ing the key to all of this lies buried in what­ev­er passed between Bea and Blanche before Eddie ever entered the pic­ture.

Curios­i­ty prick­les at me. I ask if Bea had a tem­per. They hes­i­tate, and I watch the gears turn behind their per­fect­ly glossed lips. These women don’t lie out­right, but they edit the truth like sea­soned politi­cians. Their silence says more than any­thing else. Final­ly, Emi­ly chuck­les soft­ly and says Bea was “intense.” Camp­bell adds that she was “dri­ven.” No one says “angry.” But it’s there—in the pause, in the shrug, in the way Camp­bell quick­ly changes the sub­ject.

I nod and go back to my binder, but inside, everything’s buzzing. The threads are start­ing to con­nect. Bea’s with­draw­al, the whis­pers about Eddie and Blanche, the vague men­tion of her moth­er. Some­thing hap­pened back then—something that flipped a switch in Bea. And what­ev­er it was, it still casts a shad­ow over every­thing. I smile at the right times, sip my cof­fee, and let them think I’ve moved on from the top­ic. But I haven’t. Not even close.