Chap­ter 36 — Chap­ter 36 starts with a con­fes­sion nei­ther of us expect­ed. He loved you. Hear­ing those words from Jane shakes some­thing loose inside me. It’s not because I believe her—it’s because part of me wish­es I didn’t. Jane wouldn’t want to believe it either, which makes her say­ing it feel like a jab more than com­fort. But the tone in her voice? It doesn’t sound bit­ter. She looks at me with some­thing close to under­stand­ing, and that unset­tles me more than anger would have. She is not who Eddie thought she was. Maybe he nev­er real­ly knew either of us.

There’s a sharp­ness to Jane that mir­rors some­thing I rec­og­nize in myself. That calm exte­ri­or, the mut­ed wardrobe, the abil­i­ty to blend in with a neigh­bor­hood like this—it’s all cam­ou­flage. What gives her away are her eyes. They’re too bright, too alert. As she sits across from me, sip­ping wine like we’re just two friends catch­ing up, I see the gears turn­ing behind her gaze. She doesn’t believe the sto­ry I’ve told, not real­ly. I think she’s let­ting me speak because she wants to hear what kind of liar I am. Maybe she’s still decid­ing whether to become one, too.

Her reac­tion reminds me of Blanche at the funer­al. She nev­er said any­thing direct­ly, but I saw some­thing in her eyes—doubt that couldn’t quite become sus­pi­cion. Blanche had always believed her­self clev­er­er than she was, but some­times, even peo­ple like her can get close to the truth. I wore plum that day, not black, because grief doesn’t have to dress pre­dictably. Lat­er, I sat in Mama’s old chair, fin­ish­ing a bot­tle of wine, try­ing to wash away the last image I had of her—confused, not scared, right before she fell. Or rather, right before I helped her fall.

It hadn’t tak­en much. A gen­tle push as she stum­bled near the stairs. I didn’t plan it, but I didn’t stop it either. The sound of her head hit­ting the bot­tom step still vis­its me in dreams. Not nightmares—just echoes. I told myself it was mer­cy, that she was always chas­ing anoth­er pre­scrip­tion or drink, that she’d already been fad­ing. But deep down, I knew I didn’t do it for her. I did it for me. Because free­dom some­times looks like blood on hard­wood floors.

That wasn’t some­thing I ever told Eddie. I let him think Mama’s death was just anoth­er trag­ic acci­dent, and he accept­ed it. Maybe because he had secrets of his own. Things didn’t fall apart until Blanche start­ed dig­ging. She didn’t con­front me direct­ly until that din­ner, the one after she caught me and Tripp in that bath­room. She accused me of steal­ing everything—my brand, my charm, my place in Eddie’s life. But Blanche always under­es­ti­mat­ed how much I could take before I snapped.

I gave her a peace offer­ing the next morn­ing, a gluten-free pas­try and a smile. She took it. The lake trip was my sec­ond gift. Tripp was bait. He annoyed her so much, she drank more than I expect­ed, which only made the rest eas­i­er. She passed out before the boat even drift­ed far from shore. And when the ham­mer came down, it was almost clin­i­cal. Quick. Qui­et. No screams—just water lap­ping at the side of the boat as she slid into the lake.

It should have worked. Girls’ trip gone wrong, a drunk hus­band as the scape­goat. Tripp wouldn’t remem­ber anything—I’d made sure of that with Xanax and vod­ka. And every­one knew he and Blanche had prob­lems. Maybe they’d think she drowned. Maybe they’d find the dam­age and think it was him. Either way, I’d be clear.

But then Eddie showed up. Stand­ing there on the dock, look­ing like some­one who didn’t belong in the script. Pan­ic on his face, con­fu­sion in his stance. He ruined every­thing. He didn’t even have to say anything—I knew the sec­ond I saw him that the sto­ry had changed. Men like Eddie think they con­trol the nar­ra­tive. But what they don’t real­ize is how eas­i­ly sto­ries unrav­el when they enter the scene with­out under­stand­ing the role they’re walk­ing into.

Jane leans in now, her voice tight with urgency. We have to tell the police. She says Eddie could’ve killed me. That he mur­dered Blanche. I almost laugh. Because none of this is about jus­tice. It’s about control—who holds it, who lets go, and who nev­er need­ed per­mis­sion to begin with. I pull my hand away from hers. Lat­er, I say. Let me enjoy the air, the wine, the illu­sion of choice.

Jane won’t wait for­ev­er. I can see that now. She’s sharp­er than Blanche ever was, more dan­ger­ous too, because she still thinks she has a con­science. She might go to the police, she might not. But either way, the game has changed again.

And I’m still play­ing.