Chap­ter 28 begins with a ques­tion I bare­ly real­ize I’m ask­ing, my words loos­er than they should be after three glass­es of sauvi­gnon blanc. As the car winds down from the coun­try club, every­thing feels quiet—too quiet—but Eddie’s sigh fills the still­ness. I ask if he’s wor­ried, and while his answer isn’t entire­ly clear, the ten­sion in his voice speaks vol­umes. His hand finds my knee briefly before return­ing to the wheel, his face shad­owed in the dim dash­board light. There’s a tired­ness around his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. I tell him it’s going to be alright now that Tripp is in cus­tody, but Eddie doesn’t seem con­vinced.

He reminds me that arrests don’t end stories—they begin pub­lic ones. There will be press cov­er­age, legal pro­ceed­ings, accu­sa­tions, and more rumors. The wine buzz makes it hard­er for me to focus, but some­thing in his voice feels like a warn­ing. I think of what Camp­bell mentioned—the inci­dent with the cater­er, the sharp edge in Eddie’s tem­per. But I push the thought aside. Eddie told me to trust him. I said I would. So I press his leg gen­tly, reas­sur­ing him that we have each oth­er. His lips brush my cheek and I try to hold onto that moment, even though the faint scent of bour­bon beneath his cologne rat­tles some­thing inside me.

As we pull into the dri­ve­way, the lights of the house greet us like a promise. The sheer beau­ty of it still hasn’t worn off. The grandeur, the qui­et perfection—sometimes it feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake from. It’s hard to believe this life is mine now. I watch Eddie from across the room as he checks his emails, his face seri­ous in the glow of his lap­top. I pour myself anoth­er glass of wine and decide to slip away. That bath­tub has become my pri­vate sanc­tu­ary, the one place where I can pre­tend the world isn’t unrav­el­ing out­side our walls.

The water is already steam­ing when I sink in, and for a few min­utes, I just let my mind float. The pres­sure of the evening, the shad­ow of Tripp’s arrest, the guilt and uncertainty—it all drifts fur­ther away under the warmth. I won­der how long it will take for things to feel tru­ly sta­ble, for that ache of doubt to dis­ap­pear entire­ly. Some­times I con­vince myself that what I have now is real because I need it to be. Eddie can be intense, yes, but he’s offered me some­thing I nev­er thought I’d have: secu­ri­ty. A beau­ti­ful house, a future, a place in his world. And I want to believe it’s built on some­thing sol­id.

But there are cracks. Small ones. Tripp’s warn­ings linger in my mind, even now. He’d said Eddie and Bea were poi­son. I’d laughed it off then, but now I can’t help notic­ing how Eddie avoids talk­ing about Bea in detail. And I don’t ask, not direct­ly. Because ask­ing might shat­ter this ver­sion of life we’ve cre­at­ed, and I’m not ready for that. In the qui­et moments, I some­times feel like I’m play­ing a role I haven’t ful­ly earned. Like I’ve stepped into some­one else’s life and every­one is wait­ing for me to slip up.

The wine leaves me drowsy, but not enough to ful­ly relax. I tow­el off and move slow­ly through the bed­room, glanc­ing at my phone for any updates, texts, missed calls. Noth­ing from Emi­ly, noth­ing new from the news alerts I’ve set. I check Tripp’s name just in case, but the head­lines are qui­et for now. Maybe the storm is set­tling. Or maybe it’s just the eye of it.

I find Eddie in his study, still work­ing, and lean in the door­way for a minute watch­ing him. There’s some­thing mag­net­ic about his focus, his still­ness. I want to step inside, wrap my arms around him, but I hes­i­tate. He looks up and smiles faint­ly. I smile back, but some­thing flick­ers in me—like the warmth I’d been soak­ing in has begun to cool. Tomor­row, we’ll go on pre­tend­ing. But tonight, doubt curls up qui­et­ly beside me, and I let it stay.