Epi­logue — I still think about them—Eddie and Bea. Even after every­thing that hap­pened, their shad­ows linger in qui­et cor­ners of my mind. One after­noon, while load­ing gro­ceries into my trunk, I caught a glimpse of some­one who looked like her. It wasn’t pos­si­ble, of course. By then, Alaba­ma was far behind me, along with every­thing tied to Moun­tain Brook. I’d moved to the peace­ful slopes of North Car­oli­na, using Bea’s mon­ey not for extrav­a­gance, but for a mod­est cab­in tucked into the trees. Turns out, the South held a gen­tler side after all—one I hadn’t expect­ed to love.

The SUV that rolled by that day seemed too delib­er­ate, too famil­iar. A woman in sun­glass­es glanced out, her fig­ure half-hid­den behind tint­ed win­dows. In the pas­sen­ger seat, some­one slouched—unclear, indis­tinct, maybe not even a man. Adele, my dog, barked sharply, her gaze fixed on the pass­ing car, and for a split sec­ond, I felt a pair of eyes meet mine. It could’ve been a trick of the light or just my nerves play­ing games. That was only months after the fire, a time when fear still sat just beneath my skin. I was still raw, always expect­ing the past to resur­face.

I tell myself that Bea couldn’t have sur­vived. The moment she opened the pan­ic room door, flames surged like a liv­ing beast, swal­low­ing every­thing in an instant. I recall the acrid scent of scorched hair and some­thing else—something that smelled too much like roast­ed flesh. They claimed they found Eddie’s teeth in the after­math, but part of me flinch­es at that. I remem­ber watch­ing his teeth fly when I struck him once, hard and des­per­ate, so maybe what they found wasn’t proof at all. That uncer­tain­ty fes­ters in me, unan­swered. It’s why I still look over my shoul­der, as if the past might come dri­ving up in an SUV at any moment.

In qui­et hours, I imag­ine them alive. It’s eas­i­er than accept­ing the alter­na­tive. Maybe they faked it all—disappeared to some remote island, far from any­one who’d rec­og­nize them. Bea always had a way of slip­ping out of tight cor­ners, and Eddie? He was many things, but he wasn’t stu­pid. I envi­sion them on a qui­et stretch of beach, some­where for­got­ten by maps. Palm trees sway gen­tly, waves whis­per over white sand, and they live with­out the weight of secrets or the bur­den of lega­cy.

In these men­tal snap­shots, Bea’s skin glows in the sun, her laugh­ter light and untrou­bled. Her long hair is tied back casu­al­ly, and her hand finds Eddie’s with­out hes­i­ta­tion. He’s changed—scarred, weath­ered, not the man he once was, but still by her side. I see his fin­gers, marked with burns, curl­ing around hers with a kind of prac­ticed ten­der­ness. They sit togeth­er on worn drift­wood or a fad­ed blan­ket, shar­ing moments instead of mem­o­ries, their past buried like the estate they left behind. I can almost hear her say, “We’re togeth­er now. That’s what mat­ters.”

There’s some­thing trag­i­cal­ly roman­tic in that image—the kind of love sto­ry born out of ruin. No mon­ey, no man­sion, no social sta­tus to uphold. Just two peo­ple who burned every­thing down and walked away, hand in hand. It’s not for­give­ness I offer them in these day­dreams, but under­stand­ing. Per­haps escap­ing jus­tice was their final act of devo­tion. Maybe they believe they’re free now, far away from a world that judged them too quick­ly, or not enough.

But I know bet­ter. Trau­ma doesn’t dis­ap­pear just because you change your view. Even on an island, ghosts can find you. And guilt? It lingers like smoke, impos­si­ble to out­run. I some­times won­der if Bea wakes up gasp­ing, hear­ing the fire again. Or if Eddie feels that moment replay—the crack of bone, the sound of his world col­laps­ing.

Still, I let them live in my imag­i­na­tion. Because the truth is messier, heav­ier. If they did sur­vive, I’ll like­ly nev­er know. That mys­tery is mine to car­ry, tucked between cracked floor­boards and gro­cery bags. Some­times it com­forts me to believe that they found peace some­where warm and far away. Oth­er times, it haunts me.

And per­haps that’s the real ending—not one of jus­tice or revenge, but ambi­gu­i­ty. A life left open-end­ed, the way some sto­ries demand. Not every­thing needs clo­sure. Some scars are meant to remain vis­i­ble.