Chap­ter 8 begins with a qui­et weight—everything in the Ingra­ham house still hold­ing its breath, as if wait­ing for Blanche to come back. The rooms haven’t adjust­ed to her absence. Her hand­bag still sits by the door, and a neat lit­tle pile of rings rests beside the lamp, as if she’d be back any sec­ond to slip them on. Even her shoes are still where she must have kicked them off, ging­ham flats with just enough wear on the soles to show how often they were loved.

I walk in slow, the ten­sion from last night with Eddie still press­ing against my ribs. That date had end­ed cold­er than I’d expected—just a hug on the side­walk, no warmth in his good­bye. And now, I’m here, pack­ing away pieces of anoth­er woman’s life, one who van­ished months ago and still clings to this house like per­fume in an old coat. Tripp had asked for my help, and maybe I agreed because some­thing in this place made me curi­ous.

Tripp is slumped on the couch with his usu­al break­fast cocktail—brown liquor and melt­ed ice—and greets me like I’m staff. He does­n’t remem­ber my name. I gave up cor­rect­ing him. Upstairs, in the sec­ond guest bed­room, box­es line the floor, and the air feels still. It’s the kind of room designed to impress guests with­out ever invit­ing them to stay. It’s all too pol­ished, too imper­son­al.

Tripp arrives a few min­utes lat­er, his foot­steps heavy despite his attempt to sneak up. He tries to make it seem like a check-in, but I can read his kind a mile away—the enti­tled, slouch­ing men­ace of a man who’s lost his grip on both con­trol and rel­e­vance. He rat­tles the ice in his glass and ges­tures around like this room, like Blanche, like the mess she left, nev­er real­ly mat­tered to him. The truth is, it didn’t. Not the way it should have.

He tells me to pack it all. Claims none of it meant much to Blanche, but I don’t believe him. Her jew­el­ry, her books, her care­ful­ly cho­sen throw pillows—there’s too much inten­tion here. It’s strange, the way a space can still whis­per about some­one, even after they’re gone. Blanche may not have lived for this room, but she def­i­nite­ly curat­ed it.

And then, some­thing odd hap­pens. A lamp beside the bed catch­es my eye—a tin buck­et style with soft blue flo­ral shades. I’ve seen it before. It takes a moment, but I real­ize it match­es some­thing I saw on South­ern Manors’ web­site. When I men­tion it, Tripp snaps back with a bit­ter laugh and says that Blanche had the lamp first, that Bea copied her. That Bea wasn’t orig­i­nal, that every­thing South­ern Manors built had start­ed with Blanche.

He says they grew up togeth­er, were room­mates at Ivy Ridge. That they were close—until they weren’t. And then he says it. Bea’s real name. Bertha.

The name hits hard­er than I expect. It feels weird­ly inti­mate, like I’ve stolen some­thing. Like I know some­thing I shouldn’t. And it draws a con­nec­tion between me and Bea that makes my skin prick­le. Because I haven’t always been Jane, either. That old name—the one I buried—was once a bur­den I couldn’t shake, but now it’s more of a warn­ing. This is what hap­pens when you bury too much of your­self and build some­thing too shiny on top.

Tripp watch­es my reac­tion. His gaze, though tired and unfo­cused, is still sharp when he wants it to be. There’s some­thing unspo­ken in the room, some­thing cir­cling the edges of this con­ver­sa­tion. Maybe he sus­pects more than he lets on. Or maybe he’s just enjoy­ing being the one with some­thing to hold over some­one else for once.

I keep pack­ing, but I don’t rush. His words loop in my head, and I real­ize this house is full of ghosts—Blanche’s, sure, but also Bea’s. Every­one in Thorn­field Estates talks about Bea like she was a saint, but Tripp’s bit­ter­ness paints a dif­fer­ent pic­ture. One of rival­ry. Of mim­ic­ry. Maybe even of betray­al.

And maybe that’s what makes this neigh­bor­hood what it is—women dress­ing like flow­ers, hous­es that match each oth­er too close­ly, secrets hid­den under polite smiles. Everyone’s try­ing to be some­one else. Everyone’s try­ing to win at a game no one real­ly under­stands. And me? I plan to win it, too—but on my own terms.