Chap­ter 34 begins with a deci­sion that can’t quite be explained. The nar­ra­tor finds him­self dri­ving toward the lake, unsure if it’s curios­i­ty, jeal­ousy, or some­thing deep­er that pulls him there. Tripp had casu­al­ly men­tioned Bea’s invi­ta­tion ear­li­er, and while they weren’t close, it plant­ed a seed. The idea that Bea would ask Tripp to join a sup­pos­ed­ly women-only week­end felt wrong. Some­thing in that ges­ture stirred a qui­et dis­com­fort, a nag­ging instinct that wouldn’t set­tle. Maybe it was the look Tripp had giv­en Bea lately—soft, long­ing, a lit­tle pathet­ic. The nar­ra­tor tried to con­vince him­self it was only a reac­tion to Blanche’s obvi­ous inter­est in some­one else. But the thought didn’t ease him.

When he arrives, the lake house is silent, dim­ly lit, and seem­ing­ly emp­ty. He walks through the space, call­ing out, expect­ing laugh­ter, maybe music. Instead, he finds Tripp upstairs, sprawled uncon­scious, snor­ing with a thick, unnat­ur­al rasp. Some­thing about it is off—like his body isn’t just asleep but numbed beyond alco­hol. Down­stairs, signs of life remain: a purse, a set of keys, Bea’s overnight bag. But the boat is gone. The scene is too care­ful­ly staged for com­fort, and the nar­ra­tor tries to con­vince him­self he’s being para­noid. Maybe they’re out enjoy­ing the lake, and maybe he over­re­act­ed when Blanche told him about Bea’s moth­er.

Then he sees her. Bea, soaked and bare­foot, walk­ing slow­ly up the dock like she’s emerged from a night­mare. Their eyes meet, and in hers, there’s no apology—only a qui­et defi­ance. Her pos­ture straight­ens, chin lift­ing slight­ly. That was the moment he knew some­thing had gone ter­ri­bly wrong. At first, he choos­es to believe her ver­sion. That Blanche had been threat­en­ing her, that Bea had tried to save her, that Tripp had been brought there as a decoy, not a sus­pect. Bea spins the sto­ry well, and the nar­ra­tor wants to believe it—because lov­ing her had always required some degree of delu­sion. She kiss­es him with prac­ticed sweet­ness, and for a heart­beat, he lets him­self pre­tend.

Then instinct over­takes rea­son. He clamps an arm around her neck, tight­en­ing until she gasps. The deci­sion is made—not to kill her, but to con­tain her. To lock away the dan­ger she’s become, the woman who might ruin every­thing. Lat­er, he will jus­ti­fy it: it was the safest way. She couldn’t go to prison—not in Alaba­ma, not with a mur­der this cal­cu­lat­ed. Not when whis­pers about her mother’s death might resur­face. Not when South­ern Manors, their shared busi­ness empire, stood to col­lapse under pub­lic scruti­ny. He tells him­self this isn’t cru­el­ty; it’s pro­tec­tion. Not only of Bea but of every­thing they built.

Still, he knows it’s also about con­trol. He couldn’t let her keep killing, and he couldn’t let her walk free. The pan­ic room had been a des­per­ate choice. Not smart. Not kind. But nec­es­sary. Now, con­fined to bed with injuries still heal­ing, he reflects on the woman who had briefly offered him escape: Jane. For a time, he believed he could love her. He want­ed her to be the answer, the clean break from his mess. She didn’t ask about his past, didn’t see the edges he tried to hide. But deep down, he always knew—he couldn’t erase Bea from his life.

Jane had believed in him with­out ques­tion, and that made her dan­ger­ous in a dif­fer­ent way. He hadn’t loved her—not in the way he should have. But he’d offered her hope, a pro­pos­al, a chance at a future he knew he couldn’t give. He told him­self he was try­ing to build some­thing new, but every vis­it to Bea’s room, every lie told to Jane, said oth­er­wise. He’d used Jane, shaped her into a blank can­vas where he could pre­tend to be the man he wasn’t. And in doing so, he’d bro­ken her trust, maybe even her spir­it. She didn’t deserve it.

The guilt swells, but love is the teth­er he can’t cut. What hap­pened with Blanche, with Bea’s moth­er, with the lake—it all fed into a nar­ra­tive too dark to unrav­el. But he’d tried to han­dle it. To man­age the chaos Bea brought with her. The truth is, he still loves her. And love, in its most dis­tort­ed form, had dri­ven every choice since. He still believes he saved her that night—not from the police, but from her­self.

But now she’s free. Some­where in the house with Jane. Two women, both smart, both bruised, both tan­gled in a sto­ry he can no longer con­trol. And deep down, he knows: he’s run­ning out of time.