You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

15
To get my condence back, in September 2002 I went to Milan to visit
Donatella Versace. That trip invigorated me—it reminded me that there was still
fun to be had in the world. We drank amazing wine and ate amazing food.
Donatella was a dynamic host. I was hoping things would turn around a little bit
from that point.
She had invited me to Italy to attend one of her runway shows. Donatella
dressed me in a beautiful sparkly rainbow dress. I was supposed to sing but I
really didn’t feel like it, so after I did a little bit of posing, Donatella said we
could take it easy. She played my cover of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll,” I
said hi to the models, and we were done.
Then it was time to party. Donatella is known for her lavish parties, and this
one was no exception. I remember seeing Lenny Kravitz there, all these cool
people. That party was really the rst thing I did to put myself out there a bit
after the breakup with Justin—on my own, innocent.
During the party I noticed a guy and I remember thinking he was so cute. He
looked like he was probably Brazilian: dark hair, handsome, smoking a blunt—
your typical bad boy. He was nothing like the LA actor types I’d known—he was
more like a real man, the kind of man you have a one-night stand with. He was
just sex.
When I rst noticed him, he was o talking to these two girls, but I could tell
he wanted to talk to me.
Eventually we started talking, and I decided I’d like to have drinks with him at
my hotel. We headed to my car, but during the drive, he did something that just
turned me o—honestly, I can’t even remember what it was. But it was one little
thing that really irritated me, so I told the driver to pull over, and without saying
a word, I kicked the guy out on the side of the road and left him there.
Now that I’m a mom, I’d never do anything like that—I’d be more like “I’ll
drop you o at this place at this time…” But back then, at twenty years of age, it
was pure instinct. I’d made a bad mistake letting this stranger inside my car, and
I kicked him out.
Soon after my return, Justin was preparing to release his solo album Justified. On
20/20 he played an unreleased song for Barbara Walters called “Don’t Go
(Horrible Woman)” that seemed to be about me: “I thought our love was so
strong. I guess I was dead wrong. But to look at it positively, hey girl, at least you
gave me a song about another Horrible Woman.”
Less than a month later, he released the video for his song “Cry Me a River,”
in which a woman who looks like me cheats on him and he wanders around sad
in the rain. In the news media, I was described as a harlot who’d broken the heart
of America’s golden boy. The truth: I was comatose in Louisiana, and he was
happily running around Hollywood.
May I just say that on his explosive album and in all the press that surrounded
it, Justin neglected to mention the several times he’d cheated on me?
There’s always been more leeway in Hollywood for men than for women.
And I see how men are encouraged to talk trash about women in order to
become famous and powerful. But I was shattered.
The thought of my betraying him gave the album more angst, gave it a
purpose: shit-talking an unfaithful woman. The hip-hop world of that era loved
a storyline with the theme “Fuck you, bitch!” Getting revenge on women for
perceived disrespect was all the rage at the time. Eminem’s violent revenge song
“Kim” was huge. The only problem with the narrative was that, in our case, it
wasn’t like that.
“Cry Me a River” did very well. Everyone felt very sorry for him. And it
shamed me.
I felt there was no way at the time to tell my side of the story. I couldn’t
explain, because I knew no one would take my side once Justin had convinced
the world of his version.
I don’t think Justin realized the power he had in shaming me. I don’t think
he understands to this day.
After “Cry Me a River” came out, anywhere I went, I could get booed. I
would go to clubs and I would hear boos. Once I went to a Lakers game with my
little sister and one of my brother’s friends, and the whole place, the whole
arena, booed me.
Justin told everyone that he and I had had a sexual relationship, which some
people have pointed out depicted me as not only a cheating slut but also a liar
and hypocrite. Given that I had so many teenage fans, my managers and press
people had long tried to portray me as an eternal virgin—never mind that Justin
and I had been living together, and I’d been having sex since I was fourteen.
Was I mad at being “outed” by him as sexually active? No. To be honest with
you, I liked that Justin said that. Why did my managers work so hard to claim I
was some kind of young-girl virgin even into my twenties? Whose business was it
if I’d had sex or not?
I’d appreciated it when Oprah told me on her show that my sexuality was no
one else’s business, and that when it came to virginity, “you don’t need a world
announcement if you change your mind.”
Yes, as a teenager I played into that portrayal, because everyone was making
such a big deal out of it. But if you think about it, it was pretty stupid for people
to describe my body in that way, for them to point to me and say, “Look! A
virgin!” It’s nobody’s business at all. And it took the focus o me as a musician
and performer. I worked so hard on my music and on my stage shows. But all
some reporters could think of to ask me was whether or not my breasts were real
(they were, actually) and whether or not my hymen was intact.
The way Justin admitted to everyone that we’d had a sexual relationship
broke the ice and made it so that I never had to come out myself as a non-virgin.
His talking about our having had sex never bothered me at all, and I’ve defended
him to people who criticized him for doing it. “That’s so rude!” people have said
about his talking about me sexually. But I liked it. What I heard when he said
that was “She’s a woman. No, she’s not a virgin. Shut up.”
As a child, I’d always had a guilty conscience, a lot of shame, a sense that my
family thought I was just plain bad. The sadness and the loneliness that would
hit me felt like my fault somehow, like I deserved unhappiness and bad luck. I
knew the truth of our relationship was nothing like how it was being portrayed,
but I still imagined that if I was suering, I must have deserved it. Along the line,
surely I’d done bad things. I believe in karma, and so when bad things happen, I
imagine that it’s just the law of karma catching up with me.
I’ve always been almost disturbingly empathic. What people are feeling in
Nebraska, I can subconsciously feel even though I’m thousands of miles away.
Sometimes women’s periods sync up; I feel like my emotions are always syncing
up with those around me. I don’t know what hippie word you want to use for it
—cosmic consciousness, intuition, psychic connection. All I know is that, 100
percent, I can feel the energy of other people. I can’t help but take it in.
At this point, you might be saying to yourself, “Oh my God, is she really
going to talk about this New Age stu?”
Only for one more minute.
Because the point is, I was so sensitive, and I was so young, and I was still
reeling from the abortion and the breakup; I didn’t handle things well. Justin
framed our time together with me as the bad guy, and I believed it, so ever since
then, I’ve felt like I’m under a sort of curse.
And yet, I also started to hope that if that were true, if I had so much bad
karma, it might be up to me—as an adult, as a woman—to reverse my luck, to
bring myself good fortune.
I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I escaped to Arizona with a girlfriend. That
girlfriend happened to have been dating Justin’s best friend, and we’d all broken
up around the same time, so we’d decided to take a road trip to get away from all
of it. We found each other and decided that we would leave it all behind.
Given what she’d been through, my friend was heartbroken, too, so we talked
a lot, beside ourselves with grief and loneliness, and I was grateful for her
friendship.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

CHAPTER 15
Patricia only knew one person who owned a white van. She dropped
Kitty off at Seewee Farms and with a heavy sense of dread drove to
the Old Village, turned onto Middle Street, and slowed to look at
James Harris’s house. Instead of the white van in his front yard, she
saw a red Chevy Corsica parked on the grass, glowing like a puddle of
fresh blood beneath the angry late-afternoon sun. She drove by at
five miles an hour, squinting painfully at the Corsica, willing it to
turn back into a white van.
Of course, Grace knew exactly where to find her notebook.
“I know it’s probably nothing,” Patricia said, stepping into Grace’s
front hall, pulling the door shut behind her. “I hate to even bother
you, but I have this terrible thought gnawing at me and I need to
check.”
Grace peeled off her yellow rubber gloves, opened the drawer of
her hall table, and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook.
“Do you want some coffee?” she asked.
“Please,” Patricia said, taking the notebook and following Grace
into her kitchen.
“Let me just make some room,” Grace said.
The kitchen table was covered in newspaper and in the middle
stood two plastic tubs lined with towels, one filled with soapy water,
the other filled with clean. Antique china lay on the table in orderly
rows, surrounded by cotton rags and rolls of paper towel.
“I’m cleaning Grandmother’s wedding china today,” Grace said,
carefully moving the fragile teacups to make room for Patricia. “It
takes a long time to do it the old-fashioned way, but anything worth
doing is worth doing well.”
Patricia sat down, centered Grace’s notebook in front of her, then
flipped it open. Grace set her mug of coffee down, and bitter steam
stung Patricia’s nostrils.
“Milk and sugar?” Grace asked.
“Both, please,” Patricia said, not looking up.
Grace put the cream and sugar next to Patricia, then went back to
her routine. The only sound was gentle sloshing as she dipped each
piece of china into the soapy water, then the clean. Patricia paged
through her notebook. Every page was covered in Grace’s meticulous
cursive, every entry separated by a blank line. They all started with a
date, and then came a description of the vehicle—Black boxy car,
Tall red sports vehicle, Unusual truck-type automobile—followed by
a license plate number.
Patricia’s coffee cooled as she read—Irregular green car with
large wheels, Perhaps a jeep, Needs washing—and then her heart
stopped and blood drained from her brain.
April 8, 1993, the entry read. Ann Savage’s House—parked on
grass—White Dodge Van with drug dealer windows, Texas, TNX
13S.
A high-pitched whine filled Patricia’s ears.
“Grace,” she said. “Would you read this, please?”
She turned the notebook toward Grace.
“He killed her grass parking on it like that,” Grace said, after she
read the entry. “Her lawn is never going to recover.”
Patricia pulled a sticky note from her pocket and placed it next to
the notebook. It read, Mrs. Greene—white van, Texas plate, – – X
13S.
“Mrs. Greene wrote down this partial license plate number from a
car she saw in Six Mile last week,” Patricia said. “Kitty went with me
to take her a pie and she scorched our ears with this story. One of the
children at Six Mile committed suicide after he was sick for a long
time.”
“How tragic,” Grace said.
“His cousin was murdered, too,” Patricia said. “At the same time,
they saw a white van driving around with this license plate number.
It niggled at the back of my mind, thinking where else I’d seen a
white van, and then I remembered James Harris had one. He’s got a
red car now, but these plates match his van.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Grace said.
“I don’t either,” Patricia said.
James Harris had told her his ID was being mailed to him. She
wondered if it had ever arrived, but it must have, otherwise how had
he bought a car? Was he driving around without a license? Or had he
lied to her about not having any ID? She wondered why someone
wouldn’t use their identification to open a bank or a utility account.
She thought about that bag of cash. The only reason she thought it
belonged to Ann Savage was because he said so.
They had read too many books about mafia hit men moving to the
suburbs under assumed names and drug dealers living quietly
among their unsuspecting neighbors for Patricia not to start
connecting dots. You kept your name off public records if you were
wanted for something by the government. You had a bag of money
because that was how you had been paid, and people who got paid in
cash were either hit men, drug dealers, bank robbers—or waiters, she
supposed. But James Harris didn’t seem like a waiter.
Then again, he was their friend and neighbor. He talked about
Nazis with Blue and drew her son out of his shell. He ate with them
when Carter wasn’t home and made her feel safe. He had come
around the house to check on them that night someone got on the
roof.
“I don’t know what to think,” she repeated to Grace, who dipped a
serving platter in the soapy water and tilted it from side to side.
“Mrs. Greene told us that a Caucasian male is coming into Six Mile
and doing something to the children that makes them sick. She
thinks he might be driving a white van. And it’s only been happening
since May. That’s right after James Harris moved here.”
“You’re under the influence of this month’s book,” Grace said,
lifting the platter out of the soapy water and rinsing it in the tub of
clean. “James Harris is our neighbor. He is Ann Savage’s
grandnephew. He is not driving out to Six Mile and doing something
to their children.”
“Of course not,” Patricia said. “But you read about drug dealers
living around normal people, or sex abusers bothering children and
getting away with it for so long, and you start to wonder what we
really know about anyone. I mean, James Harris says he grew up all
around, but then says he grew up in South Dakota. He says he lived
in Vermont, but his van had Texas plates.”
“You have suffered two terrible blows this summer,” Grace said,
lifting the platter and gently drying it. “Your ear has barely healed.
You are still grieving for Miss Mary. This man is not a criminal based
on when he moved here and the license plate of a passing car.”
“Isn’t that how every serial killer gets away with it for so long?”
Patricia asked. “Everyone ignores the little things and Ted Bundy
keeps killing women until finally someone does what they should
have done in the first place and connects the little things that didn’t
add up, but by then it’s too late.”
Grace set the gleaming platter on the table. Creamy white, it
featured brightly colored butterflies and a pair of birds on a branch,
all picked out in delicate, near-invisible brushstrokes.
“This is real,” Grace said, running one finger along its rim. “It’s
solid, and it’s whole, and my grandmother received it as a wedding
gift, and she gave it to my mother, and she passed it down to me, and
when the time comes, if I deem her appropriate, I’ll hand it down to
whomever Ben marries. Focus on the real things in your life and I
promise you’ll feel better.”
“I didn’t tell you this,” Patricia said, “but when I met him he
showed me a bag of money. Grace, he had over eighty thousand
dollars in there. In cash. Who has that just lying around?”
“What did he say?” Grace asked, dipping a tureen lid in the soapy
water.
“He told me he’d found it in the crawl space. That it was Ann
Savage’s nest egg.”
“She never struck me as the kind of woman who’d trust a bank,”
Grace said, rinsing the tureen lid in clean water.
“Grace, it doesn’t add up!” Patricia said. “Stop cleaning and listen
to me. At what point do we get concerned?”
“Never,” Grace said, drying the tureen lid. “Because you are
spinning a fantasy out of coincidences to distract yourself from
reality. I understand that sometimes reality can be overwhelming,
but it must be faced.”
“I’m the one facing it,” Patricia said.
“No,” Grace said. “You stood right there on my front porch after
book club two months ago and said you wished that a crime or
something exciting would happen here because you couldn’t stand
your routine. And now you’ve convinced yourself something
dangerous is happening so you can act like a detective.”
Grace picked up a stack of saucers and began placing them in the
soapy water.
“Can’t you stop cleaning china for a second and admit that maybe
I’m right about this?” Patricia asked.
“No,” Grace said. “I can’t. Because I need to be finished by 5:30 so
I can clear off the table and set it for supper. Bennett’s coming home
at six.”
“There are more important things than cleaning,” Patricia said.
Grace stopped, holding the last two saucers in her hand, and
turned on Patricia, eyes blazing.
“Why do you pretend what we do is nothing?” she asked. “Every
day, all the chaos and messiness of life happens and every day we
clean it all up. Without us, they would just wallow in filth and
disorder and nothing of any consequence would ever get done. Who
taught you to sneer at that? I’ll tell you who. Someone who took their
mother for granted.”
Grace glared at Patricia, nostrils flaring.
“I’m sorry,” Patricia said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just
worried about James Harris.”
Grace put the last two saucers in the soapy water bin.
“I’ll tell you everything you need to know about James Harris,” she
said. “He lives in the Old Village. With us. There isn’t anything wrong
with him because people who have something wrong with them don’t
live here.”
Patricia hated that she couldn’t put into words this feeling gnawing
at her guts. She felt foolish that she couldn’t shift Grace’s certainty
even for a moment.
“Thank you for putting up with me,” she said. “I need to start
supper.”
“Vacuum your curtains,” Grace said. “No one ever does it enough. I
promise it’ll make you feel better.”
Patricia wanted that to be true very badly.
—
“Mom,” Blue said from the living room door. “What’s for supper?”
“Food,” Patricia said from the sofa.
“Is it chicken again?” he asked.
“Is chicken food?” Patricia replied, not looking up from her book.
“We had chicken last night,” Blue said. “And the night before. And
the night before that.”
“Maybe tonight will be different,” Patricia said.
She heard Blue’s footsteps retreat to the hall, walk into the den, go
into the kitchen. Ten seconds later he reappeared at the living room
door.
“There’s chicken defrosting in the sink,” he said in an accusatory
tone.
“What?” Patricia asked, looking up from her book.
“We’re having chicken again,” he said.
A pang of guilt twisted through Patricia. He was right—she’d made
nothing but chicken all week. They’d order pizza. It was just the two
of them and it was a Friday night.
“I promise,” she said. “We’re not having chicken.”
He gave her a sideways look, then went back upstairs and slammed
his bedroom door. Patricia went back to her book: The Stranger
Beside Me: The Shocking Inside Story of Serial Killer Ted Bundy.
The more she read, the more uncertain she felt about everything in
her life, but she couldn’t stop.
Not-quite-book-club loved Ann Rule, of course, and her Small
Sacrifices had long been one of their favorites, but they’d never read
the book that made her famous, and Kitty was shocked when she
found out.
“Y’all,” Kitty had said. “She was just a housewife who wrote about
murders for crummy detective magazines, and then she got a deal to
write about these coed murders happening all over Seattle. Well, she
winds up finding out that the main suspect is her best friend at a
suicide hotline where she works—Ted Bundy.”
He wasn’t Ann Rule’s best friend, just a good friend, Patricia
learned as she read, but otherwise everything Kitty said was true.
That just goes to show, Grace had pronounced, whenever you call
one of those so-called hotlines, you have no clue who’s on the other
end of that phone. It could be anyone.
But the further she got into the book, the more Patricia wondered
not how Ann Rule could have missed the clues that her good friend
was a serial killer, but how well she herself actually knew the men
around her. Slick had called Patricia last week, breathless, because
Kitty had sold her a set of her Grandmother Roberts’s silver but
asked her not to mention it to anyone. It was William Hutton and
Slick couldn’t help herself—she needed someone to know that she’d
gotten it for a song. She’d chosen Patricia.
Kitty told me she needed extra money to send the children to
summer camp, Slick had said over the phone. Do you think they’re
in trouble? Seewee Farms is expensive, and it’s not like Horse
works.
Horse seemed so solid and dependable, but apparently he was
spending all his family’s money on treasure-hunting expeditions
while Kitty snuck around selling off family heirlooms to pay camp
fees. Blue would grow up to go to college and play sports and meet a
nice girl one day who would never know he was once so obsessed
with Nazis he couldn’t talk about anything else.
She knew that Carter spent so much time at the hospital because
he wanted to be head of psychiatry, but she wondered what else he
did there. She was relatively sure he wasn’t seeing a woman, but she
also knew that since his mother had died he was spending fewer and
fewer hours at home. Was he at the hospital every time he said he
was? It shocked her to realize how little she knew about what he did
between leaving the house in the morning and coming home at night.
What about Bennett, and Leland, and Ed, who all seemed so
normal? She was starting to wonder if anyone really knew what
people were like on the inside.
She ordered pizza and let Blue watch The Sound of Music after
supper. He only liked the scenes with the Nazis and knew exactly
when and where to fast-forward so the three-hour movie flew by in
fifty-five minutes. Then he went upstairs to his room and closed the
door, and did whatever it was he did in there these days, and
Patricia’s mood darkened while she washed the dishes. It was too late
to run the vacuum cleaner and vacuum her curtains, so she decided
to take a quick walk. Without meaning to, her feet took her right past
James Harris’s house. His car wasn’t out front. Had he driven up to
Six Mile? Was he seeing Destiny Taylor right this minute?
Her head felt dirty. She didn’t like thinking these thoughts. She
tried to remember what Grace had said. James Harris had moved
here to take care of his sick great-aunt. He had decided to stay. He
wasn’t a drug dealer, or a child molester, or a mafia hit man in
hiding, or a serial killer. She knew that. But when she got home she
went upstairs, took out her day planner, and counted the days. She
had taken the casserole to James Harris’s house and seen Francine
on May 15, the day Mrs. Greene said she went missing.
Everything felt wrong. Carter was never home. Mrs. Savage had
bitten off a piece of her ear. Miss Mary had died terribly. Francine
had run away with a man. An eight-year-old boy had killed himself. A
little girl might do the same. This wasn’t any of her business. But
who looked out for the children? Even the ones who weren’t their
own?
She called Mrs. Greene and part of her hoped she wouldn’t pick
up. But she did.
“I’m sorry to call after nine,” she apologized. “But how well do you
know Destiny Taylor’s mother?”
“Wanda Taylor isn’t someone I spend a lot of time thinking about,”
Mrs. Greene said.
“Do you think we could talk to her about her daughter?” Patricia
asked. “That license plate you saw, I think it belongs to a man who
lives here. James Harris. Francine worked for him and I saw her at
his house on May 15. And there are some funny things with him. I
wonder if we could talk to Destiny, maybe she could tell us if she’d
seen him out at Six Mile.”
“People don’t like strangers asking after their children,” Mrs.
Greene said.
“We’re all mothers,” Patricia said. “If something were happening
to one of ours and someone thought they knew something, wouldn’t
you want to know? And if it turns out to be nothing, all we’ve done is
bother her on a Friday night. It’s not even ten.”
There was a long pause, and then:
“Her light’s still on,” Mrs. Greene said. “Get out here quick and
let’s get this over with.”
Patricia found Blue in his room, sitting on his beanbag chair,
reading The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.
“I need to run out for a little while,” Patricia said. “Just to the
church. There’s a meeting of the deacons I forgot. Will you be okay?”
“Is Dad home?” Blue asked.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

15
We have the next meeting for the Neighborhood Beautification Committee at Eddie’s house.
My house. Sometimes I think of it like that. But thinking it and actually feeling it are two different
things, and as I carry our empty wineglasses to the sink once the meeting is over, I can’t shake the
feeling that I’m right back where I started: a servant, rather than the lady of the house.
The meeting was mostly pointless, and I think the ladies only agreed to it for the chance to get
back inside this place. The whole time we’d been sitting in the living room, talking about Pinterest
boards and “Festive Fall Fun Décor,” I’d felt their eyes cataloguing what was gone, what was new.
Campbell and Emily linger after the other women have gone home, saying it’s to help me pick up,
but I know it’s to do some more digging.
“This place looks great,” Campbell says, putting our wine bottle in the recycling. “I mean, it
always did, but it just feels brighter now, doesn’t it, Em?”
Emily hums, nodding as she sips the last of the wine from her glass. “Totally.”
The house can’t look any different from how it did the last time they were in here. There might be
a few pictures missing, but it’s not like I’ve gone on a redecorating spree.
I can’t tell if they’re being nice or fishing, so I decide to do a little fishing myself.
“Everything was so gorgeous that I didn’t really want to change anything. Bea really had excellent
taste.” A self-conscious little laugh for effect. “I mean, I guess that was her whole career, having
excellent taste.”
Emily and Campbell share a glance I pretend not to see.
“She did know how to put things together,” Campbell agrees at last, coming to stand next to me at
the kitchen counter, propping her elbows on the granite. “But you know what? I always thought
Blanche’s place was even cuter. No offense, Jane,” she hurries to say, and I wave it off even as I think
back to the Ingrahams’. There was some cute stuff there, for sure, but maybe Tripp had made
everything so grubby I hadn’t been able to see it.
“God, remember how pissed Blanche was when Bea’s living room got the big Birmingham
Magazine spread at Christmas?” Campbell says, and I see Emily look over at me for just a second.
“Blanche was funny about Christmas,” she replies delicately, and Campbell pulls a face.
“Blanche was funny about Bea.”
Turning to me, Campbell tucks her hair behind one ear. “Sorry. We’re just here in your kitchen
rehashing old gossip, aren’t we?”
“I don’t mind,” I say, and I really don’t. I feel like I keep getting these glimpses of Bea and
Blanche that don’t line up with what I thought I knew, and I want more of them. Maybe if I can paint a
full picture of Bea for myself, I won’t feel like she’s still here.
Like she could just appear around any corner.
Sometimes it feels like she has. Just last week a delivery truck showed up with fresh flowers for
the house. A standing order from Bea, one that Eddie had never canceled.
She’s been gone for nearly a year, but the arrangement of lilies and magnolias on the front table of
my house were hers, and every time I walk past them, it’s like I’ve just missed seeing her, that she’s
just stepped out for a second.
But now both Emily and Campbell shake their heads. “No, we’ve imposed enough on you today.”
Emily comes around the counter, kissing my cheek. “Thank you so much for hosting!”
“Happy to do it anytime,” I reply, and Campbell smiles, patting my arm.
“You are so sweet. Be sure to tell Eddie how much we appreciate him letting us meet here today!”
Aaaand there it is. They don’t see this as my house, either.
My smile is tight when I walk them to the door. I didn’t want to have to be this unsubtle about it,
but I’m not sure I have a choice anymore. I can feel all this starting to slip away, slowly, sure, but
still. If we’re not engaged soon, any of the ground I’ve won with the neighborhood women will be
lost.
So when Eddie comes in, nearly an hour later, I’m on the couch, iPad in hand.
As I’d known he would, he leans over the side of the couch to kiss my temple. “There’s my girl,”
he murmurs, and I can actually feel when he looks at the screen.
Behind me, his body goes tense.
“UCLA?”
I shrug, making no effort to hide the iPad or look sheepish. If I want this to work, he has to think
I’m very serious about it.
“I told you I was thinking about grad school.”
He stands up straight, his hands still on the armrest of the couch, knuckles white. “In California?”
I turn, putting my feet down on the floor, and look up at him. “Eddie, I love you, and I love staying
here. Love being with you. But I have to look out for myself. You understand that.”
He steps back, his arms folded over his chest. “I get that, but I thought … I thought I made it clear
that I want you here. That you belong here. With me.”
Standing up, I face him, tilting my chin up. “I’ve been depending on myself for almost my entire
life. I have had people say they love me and make promises they couldn’t keep in the end.”
Another step closer. I lay my hand on his wrist. “I’m the only person I can trust, Eddie. I learned
that the hard way. You can’t blame me for making plans. It’s what I do.”
A muscle works in his jaw, and I wait, almost holding my breath.
He turns away, stalking toward the bedroom, and everything in me sinks.
I’ve fucked it up. I pushed too hard too fast, and now he’s going to throw me out. For fuck’s sake,
I can’t even go to grad school, I never finished college, what am I—
Eddie comes back into the room, and I see the little velvet box in his hand.
I’m almost dizzy from the emotional whiplash of it all, but suddenly he’s in front of me, he’s
dropping down on one knee, the box is opening …
“Marry me,” he says, his voice gruff.
My eyes are fixed on the emerald ring sparkling in front of me, a huge green stone surrounded by a
halo of diamonds.

In Chapter 15 of “The Beasts of Tarzan,” Tarzan continues his pursuit down the Ugambi River, tracking Jane and Rokoff. He discovers signs that Jane, despite originally being ahead, is being closely followed by Rokoff. Tarzan advances swiftly, propelled by the alarming realization that Rokoff is nearing Jane. At the river, Tarzan deduces that Jane and Rokoff had departed by canoe. In a rush, and driven by a surge of hope, he sees a canoe with Rokoff at a distance. Tarzan, in a fervent dash to the river, leads the pack, stirs Mugambi, and both follow into the watery path with the primal force of survival fueling their pursuit.

Rokoff, overwhelmed by nerve-wracking fear as Tarzan dives into the river, desperately tries to flee. A perilous tussle ensues when Tarzan nearly captures the canoe but is thwarted by both Rokoff’s frantic attack and an unexpected assault from a river beast. Tarzan disappears beneath the dark waters, leaving Rokoff to flee towards perceived safety. The pace dial tones back into a sinister slow burn as Rokoff, despite his temporary escape from Tarzan, faces a relentless pursuit by the jungle’s nightmarish entities, wearing him down to a shadow of his former self.

Jane Clayton’s narrative juxtaposes with Rokoff’s desperate flight, showcasing her resilience and survival instincts. She maneuvers her canoe along the river, always on edge, yet strategic in her rest. The vast distance traveled by Jane, marked by endurance and hope, eventually brings her to an unforeseen crossroads when she encounters the Kincaid anchored in the bay.

The narrative crescendos as Jane, upon boarding the Kincaid, realizes the ship is deserted except for drunken sailors, whom she secures away. Determined, she positions herself to confront any new threats or opportunities that come aboard. The chapter closes with Jane’s tense anticipation as an approaching canoe signals the next chapter of her ordeal on these treacherous waters.

This portion of “The Beasts of Tarzan” vividly paints the grueling resilience and wild pursuits of its characters, set against the relentless and unforgiving laws of the jungle and the river that serves both as a pathway and a barrier to their fates.