Chap­ter 29 begins with a deci­sion so reck­less it sur­pris­es even me. Run­ning through the neigh­bor­hood in the ear­ly morn­ing, I tell myself it’s just anoth­er jog, noth­ing sus­pi­cious. But my pulse races for more rea­sons than car­dio. I’m on my way to Tripp Ingraham’s house—a man recent­ly charged with mur­der. The log­ic is flim­sy at best, but his late-night texts haven’t left my mind. There’s a part of me, deep­er than instinct, that whis­pers he’s telling the truth. Tripp has plen­ty of flaws—he drinks too much, says the wrong things, and leans far too hard into entitlement—but some­thing about him doesn’t match the pro­file of a killer.

His house looks aban­doned by hope. Over­grown bush­es line the front, and dead petals scat­ter across cracked pave­ment like rem­nants of some­thing once cared for. When he final­ly answers the door, I bare­ly rec­og­nize him. His skin is sal­low, eyes dark­ened with exhaus­tion, and a sour smell clings to the air as I step inside. The place reeks of booze and neglect, a sad echo of some­one unrav­el­ing. I refuse to sit. I cross my arms and demand he get to the point. Tripp offers a half-heart­ed smirk, tries to soft­en the ten­sion with sar­casm, but the weari­ness behind his eyes tells me he’s got more to say.

He talks about Eddie—how per­fect he must’ve seemed when I met him. Charm­ing, wealthy, mag­net­ic. But Tripp cuts through the sur­face: “He’s poi­son,” he says. “And so is Bea.” It’s not bit­ter­ness in his voice—it’s regret. He tells me Blanche want­ed to move, that she’d start­ed talk­ing about Bea like a weight she couldn’t shake. “Bea took her whole damn life,” he says, “and still couldn’t give her space.” The sto­ry that unfolds next stops my breath. Tripp admits Bea invit­ed him to the lake that week­end. He thought it was a peace offer­ing. Instead, it might have been a set­up.

Accord­ing to him, he passed out from too much alco­hol and woke up alone. The boat was gone. Bea and Blanche were miss­ing. He assumed they’d gone out togeth­er. Only lat­er did he learn they were both already dead. “Rot­ting in that water,” he whis­pers, voice crack­ing. Tripp swears he had noth­ing to do with it, but his fin­ger­prints are on the boat, and some­one used his cred­it card to buy rope and a ham­mer. “I was afraid,” he says. “But you still have a chance, Jane. Walk away.” I hear des­per­a­tion in his voice—real fear, not just self-preser­va­tion. That, more than any­thing, tells me some­thing big­ger is at play.

Back at the house, I’m fran­tic. Tripp’s warn­ing echoes in my ears, and I tear through the rooms like I’m pos­sessed. I rip open draw­ers, dump out box­es, and flip through every pock­et of Eddie’s clothes. Adele barks ner­vous­ly, cir­cling my feet as if try­ing to anchor me. Cush­ions are tossed, books scat­tered, clos­ets emp­tied. Some­where in this house, I’m sure there has to be a trace—a receipt, a weapon, a blood­stain. You don’t com­mit mur­der with­out leav­ing some­thing behind. You just don’t. But hours pass, and the only thing I’ve gained is exhaus­tion.

Even­tu­al­ly, I col­lapse on the floor of the coat clos­et, sur­round­ed by torn lin­ing and shoe dust. I’m shak­ing from adren­a­line and dis­be­lief. Adele watch­es me from the hall­way, silent now, like she knows something’s changed. I’m not even sure what I’m doing anymore—trying to find proof, or try­ing to give myself a rea­son to leave. Tripp might be right. What­ev­er hap­pened up there on the lake wasn’t just tragic—it was cal­cu­lat­ed. And even if Eddie didn’t swing the ham­mer, he knows more than he ever let on.

Just as I’m about to give up, some­thing catch­es my eye. A jack­et, crum­pled in the cor­ner of the clos­et, looks unfa­mil­iar. I reach for it, and my fin­gers brush against a weight in one pock­et. Heart ham­mer­ing, I pull it out. But it’s not a weapon. It’s a paper­back nov­el. A romance. Not the kind Eddie usu­al­ly reads. Not mil­i­tary thrillers or finance exposés—but some­thing soft, even sen­ti­men­tal.

And that’s when the worst thought creeps in. Maybe the real clue isn’t about what Eddie did. Maybe it’s about what he felt. Maybe some­one else com­mit­ted the murder—but Eddie cov­ered it up out of love. Out of guilt. Out of some­thing that com­pli­cates this even fur­ther. I sit in the wreck­age of our per­fect life, sur­round­ed by bro­ken things, and real­ize: this sto­ry isn’t over. It’s bare­ly begun.