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.

36
One thing that brought me solace and hope during the time when I was in Vegas
was teaching dance to kids at a studio once a month, and I loved it. I taught a
group of forty kids. Then back in LA, not far from my house, I taught once
every two months.
That was one of the most fun things in my life. It was nice to be in a room
with kids who had no judgment. In the conservatorship, people were always
judging everything I did. The joy and trust of kids the age of the ones I taught—
between ve and twelve—is contagious. Their energy is so sweet. They want to
learn. I nd it 100 percent healing to be around children.
One day there, I did a turn and accidentally bonked a tiny little girl in the
head with my hand.
“Baby! I am so sorry!” I said.
I felt so bad that I got on my knees in front of her. I pulled a ring o my
nger, one of my favorite rings, and gave it to her while begging her forgiveness.
“Miss Britney, it’s ne!” she said. “You didn’t even hurt me.”
I wanted to do anything I could to let her know that I cared if she was in pain
and that I would do whatever it took to make it up to her.
Looking up at her from my knees on the dance studio oor, I thought, Wait
a minute. Why are the people who are charged—by the state—with my care not
half as interested in my well-being as I am in this little girl’s?
I decided to make a push to get out of the conservatorship. I went to court in
2014 and mentioned my father’s alcoholism and erratic behavior, asking that
they drug-test him. After all, he was controlling my money and my life. But my
case didn’t go anywhere. The judge just didn’t listen.
What followed was a cloak-and-dagger eort to get my own lawyer. I even
mentioned the conservatorship on a talk show in 2016, but somehow, that part
of the interview didn’t make it to the air. Huh. How interesting.
That feeling of being trapped contributed to the collapse of my romantic life.
After a stupid ght, Charlie and I got so prideful that we stopped speaking to
each other. It was the dumbest thing. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him, and
he had too much pride to talk to me.
That’s when I started working with two great songwriters, Julia Michaels and
Justin Tranter. We’d sit and write everything together. I had passion about it. It
was the one thing in the thirteen years of the conservatorship that I really put my
heart into. I worked hard on the songs, which gave me condence. You know
when you’re good at something and can feel it? You start doing something and
think, I got this? Writing that album gave me my condence back.
When it was done, I played it for my sons.
“What should I name the album?” I asked. My kids are really smart about
music.
“Just name it Glory,” Sean Preston said.
And so I did. Seeing the kids so proud of that album meant a lot to me—I
thought, I’m proud of this, too! It was a feeling I hadn’t had in a long time.
I released the video for “Make Me,” and I went on the 2016 VMAs to
perform in support of it for the rst time since 2007.
The rst time I saw Hesam Asghari on the set of my video for “Slumber Party,” I
knew I wanted him in my life immediately. I was instantly smitten. The
chemistry with us in the beginning was insane. We couldn’t keep our hands o
each other. He called me his lioness.
Right away, the tabloids started to say that he was cheating on me. We’d been
dating two weeks! We stayed with each other. I started to feel my spark returning.
Then my dad decided he had to send me to treatment again because I’d snuck
my over-the-counter energy supplements. He thought that I had a problem, but
he showed mercy and said I could be an outpatient there so long as I’d go four
times a week to Alcoholics Anonymous.
At rst, I resisted, but the women I met there began to inspire me. I’d listen
to them telling their stories and I’d think, These women are brilliant. Their
stories were actually very, very profound. I found a human connection in those
meetings that I’d never found anywhere before in my life. And so at the
beginning, I really liked it. But some of the girls didn’t always show up. They
could pick and choose meetings they wanted to go to. I had no choice in the
matter. Friends I met there might only go twice a week, or they’d go to a
morning meeting one day and an evening meeting the next day. I wasn’t allowed
to switch it up at all.
I had the same meetings at the same time every week, no matter what.
After an exhausting run of shows, I came home, and my sons, my assistant, my
mom, and my dad were there.
“Time for your meeting,” my dad said.
“Is there a way I can just stay home right now and watch a movie with the
boys? I never missed one meeting,” I said.
I had never watched a movie with my kids at home in Vegas. I thought we
could pop popcorn and have a nice time together.
“No, you have to go,” he said.
I looked at my mom, hoping she would stand up for me, but she looked away.
At that moment, I started to feel like I was in a cult and my father was the
cult leader. They were treating me like I was beholden to him.
But I was so good, I thought, reecting on how hard I’d worked in those
shows. I wasn’t good, I was great. It was a line that would run through my mind
repeatedly over the next couple years when I thought about the ways in which I
had not just met but exceeded the expectations that had been set for me—and
how unfair it was that I still wasn’t free.

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 36
On Monday, temperatures plunged around noon and dark clouds
started piling up overhead. Leaves skimmed the Old Village’s empty
streets. On the bridge, sudden gusts blew cars sideways, forcing them
to abruptly shift lanes. It got dark by four, and windows rattled in
their frames, doors blew open suddenly, and the wind tore limbs
from live oaks and smashed them down in the middle of the street.
The black wind pushed hard on the windows in Slick’s hospital
room and the glass creaked, while inside, the air felt as cold as the
inside of a refrigerator.
“Is this going to take long?” Maryellen asked. “Monica has a Latin
project due tomorrow and I need to help her build a Parthenon out of
toilet paper tubes.”
“I don’t like being away from home,” Kitty said, tucking her hands
beneath her paper gown to keep them warm.
Kitty’s gown was tied sloppily, and Patricia could see her brown
sweater with two silver sequined handprints on its chest through the
paper. Maryellen wore a gingham blouse and a neatly tied paper
gown. The overhead fixture had been turned off and the only light
came from fluorescent bars over Slick’s headboard and over the sink,
filling the room with shadows. Slick sat up in bed, a navy cardigan
covered in aquamarine triangles draped over her shoulders. Patricia
had done the best she could with her makeup, but Slick looked like a
skull wearing a fright wig.
Someone tapped on the door, and Mrs. Greene came in.
“Thank you for coming,” Patricia said.
“Hello…Mrs. Greene.” Slick smiled.
It took Mrs. Greene a moment to recognize her, and Patricia saw
her eyes become stricken with horror, and then she wrestled them
into a pleasant expression.
“How are you, Mrs. Paley?” she said. “I’m sorry you’re feeling
poorly.”
“Thank you,” Slick said.
Mrs. Greene perched on a chair, purse in her lap, and a silence fell
over the room. The wind thumped at the windows.
“Slick,” Maryellen said. “You wanted us to come see you, but I’m
getting a sinking feeling you have a secret agenda.”
“I’m sorry, y’all,” Kitty said. “But can we hurry this up?”
The door opened again, and they all turned and saw Grace.
Everything inside Patricia squirmed and twisted away.
Grace nodded to Slick, then saw Mrs. Greene and Patricia.
“You called and asked me to drop by,” she told Slick. “But it seems
a little crowded right this minute. I’ll come back another time.”
She turned to go and Patricia shouted, “No!”
Grace looked back, eyes blank.
“Don’t go,” Slick wheezed from where she sat. “Please…”
Caught between making a scene and doing something she didn’t
want to do, Grace did something she didn’t want to do. She threaded
her way between Maryellen and Kitty and took the only open seat,
which was the one closest to the bed. Slick and Patricia had decided
it would be harder for her to leave that way.
“Well,” Grace said in the long silence.
“You know,” Maryellen said, “it’s like the old book club’s back
together again. Any minute someone’s going to pull an Ann Rule out
of her bag.”
Patricia leaned over and pulled Dead by Sunset out of her bag.
Everyone laughed stiffly, except Grace and Mrs. Greene, who didn’t
get the joke. Slick’s laughter turned into a coughing fit.
“I assume there’s a reason we’re here,” Kitty said to Slick.
Slick nodded to Patricia, giving her the floor.
“We need to talk about James Harris,” Patricia began.
“I just remembered someplace I need to be,” Grace said, standing.
“Grace, I need you to hear this,” Patricia said.
“I came because Slick called,” Grace said, looping her purse over
one shoulder. “I will not do this again. Now, excuse me.”
“I was wrong,” Patricia said. That stopped Grace. “I was wrong
about James Harris. I thought he was a drug dealer and I misled all
of you. And I’m sorry.”
Grace’s body relaxed slightly, and she leaned back toward her
chair.
“That’s big of you,” Maryellen said. “But we were all responsible.
We let those books get to our head.”
“He isn’t a drug dealer,” Patricia said. “He’s a vampire.”
Kitty looked like she was about to throw up. Grace’s face turned
dark and ugly. Maryellen uttered a single bark of laughter and said,
“What?”
“Slick,” Patricia said. “Tell them what happened.”
“I was…attacked,” Slick said, and instantly her eyes turned red and
wet. “By James Harris…Patricia and Mrs. Greene…had a photograph
that…belonged to Carter’s mother…It showed James Harris…in
1928…looking exactly the same…as he does now.”
“I do have to go,” Grace said.
“Grace,” Slick said. “If we were…ever friends…I need you to hear
me now.”
Grace didn’t say anything, but she stopped edging toward the door.
“I had…the photograph and clippings…Mrs. Greene collected,”
Slick continued. “Patricia came to me…because she and Mrs. Greene
thought it proved…he was Satan’s agent…They wanted to go into his
house…find evidence that he’d hurt children…but my pride was
great…and I went to him and tried to bargain…I told him if he left
town…I’d destroy the photograph and keep his secret…he attacked
me…he forced himself on me…His…I’m sorry.” She tilted her head
back so her tears didn’t cause her makeup to run. Patricia handed
her a crumpled tissue and Slick dabbed it beneath her eyes. “His
discharge…made me sick. No one knows what it’s doing inside me…
the doctors don’t know…I didn’t tell anyone what he did…because…
he said as long as I kept quiet…he wouldn’t hurt my children.”
“Mrs. Greene and I went into his house,” Patricia said, picking up
from Slick. “We found Francine’s corpse packed in a suitcase and
shoved in his attic. I’m sure he’s gotten rid of it by now.”
“This is in poor taste,” Grace said. “Francine was a human being.
To use her death as part of your fantasy is grotesque.”
Patricia pulled out the snapshot she’d taken the night before. It
showed Korey’s thigh. The flash made the bruise and puncture mark
livid against her washed-out skin. She held it out to Grace.
“He did this to Korey,” she said.
“What’d he do to her?” Kitty asked, softly, trying to see.
“He seduced her behind my back,” Patricia said. “For months he’s
been seducing my daughter, grooming her, feeding on her, and
making her think she liked it. He says he has a condition where he
has to use a person to clean his blood, like dialysis. Apparently it
creates a euphoric feeling in the person. They become addicted.”
“It’s the same mark they found on the children in Six Mile,” Mrs.
Greene said.
“It’s the same mark Ben said they found on Ann Savage after she
died,” Patricia said.
“I thought he would leave our children alone if I kept quiet,” Slick
said. “But he took Korey. He could come after any one of us next. His
hunger knows no limits.”
“Before we just had suspicions,” Patricia said. “Francine was gone.
Orville Reed killed himself, Destiny Taylor killed herself. But Kitty
and I saw Francine’s body in his attic. He attacked Slick. He attacked
my daughter. He’s grooming Blue. He wants me.”
“Did you really see Francine’s body in his attic?” Maryellen asked
Kitty.
Kitty looked down at her paper-shrouded knees.
“Tell her,” Patricia said.
“He’d broken her arms and legs to stuff her inside a suitcase,” Kitty
said.
“How much more evidence do we need that none of us are safe?”
Patricia asked. “The men all think he’s their best friend, but he’s
taken everything he wanted right out from under our noses. How
long do we wait before we do something? He is preying on our
children.”
“Call me old-fashioned,” Grace snapped. “But first you tell the
police he’s a child molester. Then you tell us he’s a drug dealer. Now
you say he’s Count Dracula. Your fantasies have come at a great cost
to the rest of us, Patricia. Do you know what happened to me?”
“I know,” Patricia said through gritted teeth. “I know, I messed up.
Oh, God, Grace, I know I messed up and I am being punished for it,
but we ran away when things got hard. And now we’ve waited so long
that I don’t think there’s a normal way to get rid of him. I think he’s
ingrained himself too deeply into the Old Village.”
“Spare me,” Grace said.
“I am crawling on my knees begging for your help,” Patricia said.
“Don’t tell me the rest of you believe this nonsense?” Grace asked.
Maryellen and Kitty wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Kitty,” Patricia said. “You and I saw what he did to Francine. I
know how scared you are but how long do you think it will be until he
figures out you were in his attic, too? How long do you think it will be
before he comes after your family?”
“Don’t say things like that,” Kitty said.
“It’s true,” Patricia said. “We can’t hide from it anymore.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking us to do,” Maryellen said.
“You said you wanted to live where people watched out for each
other,” Patricia told her. “But what’s the good of watching if we’re not
going to act?”
“We’re a book club,” Maryellen said. “What are we supposed to do?
Read him to death? Use strong language? We can’t go to Ed again.”
“I think…we’re beyond that,” Slick said.
“Then I don’t know what we’re talking about,” Maryellen said.
“The last time we did this we learned one thing,” Patricia said.
“The men stick together. Their friendship with him is stronger now
than it was then. There’s only us.”
Grace hitched her purse’s shoulder straps higher over her shoulder
and regarded the room.
“I am leaving now before this becomes even more absurd,” she
said, nodding to Kitty and Maryellen. “And I think you should both
come with me before you do something you’ll regret.”
“Grace,” Kitty said, low and calm, staring at her knees. “If you keep
acting like I’m feebleminded, I’m going to smack you. I’m a grown
woman, the same as you, and I saw a dead body in that attic.”
“Good night,” Grace said, heading for the door.
Patricia nodded to Mrs. Greene, who stepped into Grace’s path,
blocking her.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh,” she said. “Am I trash to you?”
Grace did a double take, the first one any of them had ever seen.
“I beg your pardon?” Grace asked, all frozen hauteur.
Frozen hauteur didn’t cut much ice with Mrs. Greene.
“You must think I’m trash,” Mrs. Greene said.
Grace swallowed once, so outraged she couldn’t even get the words
lined up on her tongue.
“I said no such thing,” she managed.
“Your actions aren’t the actions of a Christian woman,” Mrs.
Greene said. “I came to you years ago as a mother and as a woman,
and I begged for your help because that man was preying on the
children in Six Mile. I begged for you to do something simple, to
come with me to the police, and tell them what you knew. I risked my
job and the money that puts food on my table, to come to you. Do
you even know my children’s names?”
It took a minute for Grace to realize Mrs. Greene was waiting for
an answer.
“There’s Abraham,” Grace said, searching for their names. “And
Lily, I think…”
“The first Harry,” Mrs. Greene said. “He passed. Harry Jr., Rose,
Heanne, Jesse, and Aaron. You don’t even know how many children
I’ve got, and I don’t expect you to. But you owe me. You protected
yourself, but you didn’t do a thing for the children of Six Mile
because they weren’t worthwhile to you. Well, now he’s coming after
your children. Mrs. Campbell’s daughter is one of you. Mrs. Paley is
supposed to be your friend. Mrs. Scruggs saw Francine’s body in his
house. What are you made of, Mrs. Cavanaugh, that lets you walk
away from your friends?”
They watched Grace cycle through a dozen different emotions, a
hundred possible responses, her jaw working, her chin clenching, the
cords in her neck twitching. Mrs. Greene stared back at her, jaw
outthrust. Then Grace pushed past her, threw open the door, and
slammed it behind her.
In the silence, none of them moved. The only sound was wind
whistling through a chink in the window’s weatherstripping.
“She’s right,” Slick said. “All of us…got scared and sacrificed the
children of Six Mile…for our own. We were…embarrassed and
frightened. Proverbs says…‘Like a muddied spring or a polluted
fountain…is a righteous man who gives way…before the wicked.’ We
gave way…We wanted to believe…that Patricia was wrong because it
meant we didn’t have to do…anything hard.”
Patricia decided it was safe to push them to the next step.
“I don’t know if the word is vampire or monster,” Patricia said.
“But I’ve seen him like this twice and Slick has seen it once. He’s not
like us. He can live for a very long time. He’s strong. He can see in
the dark.”
“His willpower can make animals do his bidding,” Mrs. Greene
said.
Patricia looked over at her, both of them thinking about the rats,
about the way the house smelled for days after, about Miss Mary in
the hospital, unconscious, her wounds stained with iodine, breathing
through a tube. Patricia nodded.
“I think you’re right,” she said. “And he needs to put his blood
through people to live. They get addicted to him. Right now, Korey
would stab me in the back for him to suck on her again. That’s how
good it feels. He’s gotten everything he wants, so why would he stop
by himself? We need to stop him.”
“Again,” Maryellen said, “we’re a book club, not a bunch of
detectives. If he’s so much stronger than us, this is futile.”
“You think…we can’t match him?” Slick asked from her bed. “I’ve
had three children…And some man who’s never felt…his baby crown
is stronger than me? Is tougher than me? He thinks he’s safe…
because he thinks like you…He looks at Patricia and thinks we’re all a
bunch of Sunshine Suzies…He thinks we’re what we look like on the
outside: nice Southern ladies. Let me tell you something…there’s
nothing nice about Southern ladies.”
There was a long pause, and then Patricia spoke.
“He has one weakness,” Patricia said. “He’s alone. He’s not
connected to other people, he doesn’t have any family or friends. If
one of us so much as misses a car pool pickup everyone starts
dropping by the house to make sure we’re okay. But he’s a loner. If
we can make him disappear, totally and completely, there’s no one to
ask questions. There may be a hard day or two but they will pass, and
it will be like he never existed.”
Maryellen turned her face to the ceiling, arms out in a shrug. “How
are you sitting here talking like this is normal? We’re six women.
Five women, because I don’t think Grace is coming back. I mean,
Kitty, your husband has to open jars for you.”
“It’s not…about that,” Slick said, eyes blazing. “It’s not about…our
husbands or anyone else…it’s about us. It’s about whether…we can
go the distance. That’s what matters…not our money, or our looks, or
our husbands…Can we go the distance?”
“Not with killing a man,” Maryellen said.
“He’s not a man,” Mrs. Greene said.
“Listen to me,” Slick said. “If there were…a toxic waste dump in
this city…that caused cancer…we would not stop until we closed it
down. This is no different. This is our families’ safety we’re talking
about…our children’s lives. Are you willing to gamble…with those?”
Maryellen leaned forward and touched Kitty’s leg. Kitty looked up
from studying her knees.
“You really saw Francine in his attic?” Maryellen asked. “Don’t lie
to me. You’re sure it was her and not a shadow or a mannequin or
some Halloween decoration?”
Kitty nodded, miserable.
“When I close my eyes I see her in that suitcase, wrapped in
plastic,” she moaned. “I can’t sleep, Maryellen.”
Maryellen studied Kitty’s face, then leaned back.
“How do we do it?” she asked.
“Before we go any further,” Slick said. “We have to see it through…
and then never talk about it again…I have to hear it from each of
you…After this there’s no…changing your mind.”
“Amen,” Mrs. Greene said.
“Of course,” Patricia agreed.
“Kitty?” Slick asked.
“God help me, yes,” Kitty exhaled in a rush.
“Maryellen?” Slick asked.
Maryellen didn’t say anything.
“He’ll come for Caroline next,” Patricia said. “Then Alexa. Then
Monica. He’ll do to them what he’s done to Korey. He’s just hunger,
Maryellen. He’ll eat and eat until there’s nothing left.”
“I won’t do anything illegal,” Maryellen said.
“We’re beyond that,” Patricia said. “We’re protecting our families.
We will do whatever it takes. You’re a mother, too.”
Everyone watched Maryellen. Her back was stiff and then the fight
went out of her and her shoulders slumped.
“All right,” she said.
Patricia, Slick, and Mrs. Greene exchanged a look. Patricia took it
as her cue.
“We need a night when everyone’s distracted,” she said. “Next
week is the Clemson-Carolina game. The entire population of South
Carolina is going to be glued to their television sets from kickoff until
the last down. That’s when we do it.”
“Do what?” Kitty asked in a very small voice.
Patricia took a black-and-white Mead composition book from her
purse.
“I read everything I could about them,” she said. “About things like
vampires. Mrs. Greene and I have been making a list of the facts they
agree on. There are as many superstitions about how to stop one as
there are how to create one: exposure to sunlight, drive a stake
through its heart, decapitation, silver.”
“We can think he’s evil and not an actual vampire,” Maryellen said.
“Maybe he’s like that Richard Chase, the Vampire of Sacramento,
and he just thinks he’s a vampire.”
“No,” Patricia said. “We can’t fool ourselves anymore. He’s
unnatural and we have to kill him the right way or he’s just going to
keep on coming back. He’s underestimated us. We can’t
underestimate him.”
Her words sounded bizarre in the sterile hospital room with its
plastic cups and sippy straws, its television hanging from the ceiling,
its Hallmark cards on the windowsill. They looked at each other in
their practical flats with their roomy purses by their feet, with their
reading glasses, and their notepads, and their ballpoint pens, and
realized they had crossed a line.
“We have to drive a stake through his heart?” Kitty asked. “I don’t
think I’m up for that.”
“No stakes,” Patricia said.
“Oh, thank God,” Kitty said. “Sorry, Slick.”
“I don’t think that would kill him,” Patricia said. “The books say
vampires sleep during the day, but he’s awake in daylight. The sun

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.

36
He loved you.
I don’t know why hearing those words out of Jane’s mouth hit me like they do. Maybe because
Jane, of all people, wouldn’t want that to be true.
But Jane is a good liar.
I can tell, looking at her. I can also tell that she isn’t at all the girl Eddie thought she was. A girl
who would smash his face in with a silver pineapple, then sit here with his wife—who she’d been
told was dead at the bottom of a lake—drinking wine.
I like this girl, so much that I almost feel sorry for Eddie that he couldn’t see this side of her.
He might have liked it, too.
Or maybe he did. Maybe, as much as he hated to admit it, Eddie knew she was like me.
Knew that it was what had drawn him to her in the first place.
She takes another sip of her wine. She is petite, pale, her hair a color between blond and brown
that isn’t particularly flattering, and the clothes she’s wearing look like muted imitations of the other
women in this neighborhood. Maybe that was enough to fool Eddie, but he should have looked into
her eyes.
Her eyes give it all away.
For example, she’s nodding at me, sitting there calmly, but her eyes are almost fever-bright, and
I’m sure she’s not buying my story of what “really happened.” The affair, Eddie killing Blanche,
locking me away, framing Tripp. I’d counted on her thinking Eddie is smarter than he is, but that might
have been a miscalculation.
In fact, looking at her now, she reminds me of Blanche. After the funeral.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Bea hugs Blanche tightly, feeling just how thin she is in her black
dress. Bea is not wearing black, going instead for the dark plum that will be a signature shade in
this year’s autumn line at Southern Manors.
Blanche hugs her back, says how sorry she is over and over again, but as she leaves, Bea
thinks she catches something in Blanche’s eyes. She’s not suspicious, not exactly. Blanche would
never make that big of a leap. But Bea can tell there’s something about all of this that isn’t sitting
quite right for Blanche, even if she’d never say it, never even let herself think it.
Later that night, Bea sits in the wingback chair she’d had shipped from Mama’s house, the only
thing she’d wanted out of her godawful childhood home, and finishes off the bottle of wine. It
helps her to feel numb and fuzzy, helps to block out the picture of Mama’s face right before she
fell.
She had been high, that part was true, completely zonked out on whatever the current flavor of
escape was. Klonopin, probably. Bea had watched her make her way down the hall like a woman
much older than fifty-three, her footsteps slow and shuffling.
She had told Mama to get rid of that hall runner right there by the stairs, but of course she
hadn’t listened. Still, she’d only stumbled rather than fallen outright. She would’ve been fine.
Bea can’t even say for sure why she pushed her. Only that she was there, and Mama tripped,
and as she did, Bea’s whole heart seemed to rise up joyfully in her chest, and it had felt like the
most natural thing in the world to just reach out and … shove.
Her face didn’t register fear or horror or shock. As always, Mama just looked vaguely confused
as she fell.
It occurred to Bea at the funeral that she was lucky. If she’d just broken an ankle or fractured a
collarbone, Bea would’ve had a lot of explaining to do. But she hit her head hard at the edge of the
filial there at the bottom. Bea had heard the crack, seen the blood.
She didn’t die right away, but when Bea had looked down at her, she’d seen that the injury was
severe enough, the blood already pooling around her head.
Still, if she had called 911 right then instead of the next morning, if she’d pretended to hear a
thud in the middle of the night rather than waking up to find her mother at the bottom of the stairs,
Mama probably would’ve made it. It was the bleeding that did it in the end, after all.
Lying there all night alone at the foot of the stairs, blood gushing then slowly leaking onto the
hardwood.
Bea had waited for months to feel bad about it, but in the end, all she’d felt was free.
And she’d put it out of her head, mostly, for years. Even Eddie didn’t know the truth about how
her Mama had died. She’d given him a vague story about Mama’s drinking, and since Eddie was
vague enough about his own past, he’d let it slide. It hadn’t come up again until just a few months
before Blanche died.
The two of them, having dinner at that same Mexican restaurant they’d gone to after Bea had
met Eddie.
Things had been tense—this is after Bea catches Eddie and Blanche at lunch, after she fucks
Tripp in the bathroom, not that Blanche knows about that—but Bea is still unprepared for how
angry Blanche seems that night.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” she asks, and Bea stares at her until she’s the first to look away.
“Eddie. That all your shit is fake. That this whole”—she waves one arm in the air—“Southern
Manors thing was basically stolen from me.”
“I know it’s hard to believe the world doesn’t revolve around you, Blanche, but I promise that’s
the case,” Bea replies, her voice calm even as her pulse spikes.
Blanche takes another drink, sullen now. Was she always like this, or is this what being
married to Tripp has done? Bea wonders.
She even looks like him now, her hair the same sandy shade as his, cut nearly as short. But her
body is rail thin, unlike his, bangles jangling on her wrist as she plucks a chip from the basket.
Bea can’t help but inspect those bracelets, looking for something familiar, but no, not a one of
them is from Southern Manors. They’re all Kate Spade, and she wrinkles her nose.
Blanche sees. “What?” She’s not eating the chip she’s holding, just picking small pieces off of
it, and Bea reaches over to wipe away the pile of crumbs.
“If you need bangles, we just did a new line,” Bea says. “I’ll send some over to you.”
Blanche’s lips part slightly, eyes wide, and after a moment, she gives a startled laugh that’s too
loud. “Are you fucking serious?” she asks, and Bea sees heads turn in their direction.
Frowning, she leans closer. “Lower your voice, please.”
“No,” she says, letting the remnant of her chip drop to the table. “No, I seriously want to know
if you’re pissed because I’m not wearing your stupid jewelry. I want to know if that’s what’s
happening right now, Bertha.”
“Mature,” Bea replies, and Blanche hoots with laughter, sitting back in the booth and crossing
her arms over her chest.
“I’m asking you if your husband knows that everything about you is a lie. You’re bitching
about my bracelets, and I’m the immature one, okay.”
Bea’s hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist, the one covered in those goddamn bangles, and she
squeezes so hard Blanche yelps.
“You’re drunk,” Bea tells her through clenched teeth. “And you’re embarrassing yourself.
Maybe leave that to Tripp.”
Dinner ends early that night, and it’s only two days later that Eddie is asking why Bea never
told him her mother died in a fall.
Which is when Bea realizes there is no affair, when she realizes that even if Blanche had
wanted to hurt her, Eddie did not. And because Blanche did not get what she wanted for once in
her life, she’s now acting out, firing the only ammunition she has left.
Bea shows up with coffee the next morning and breakfast pastries. She even gets Blanche one
of those gluten-free abominations she likes.
“Peace offering,” she says, and she can tell that a part of Blanche wants to believe it, that she
wants things to go back to the way they were.
The lake trip is another peace offering. Another olive branch.
And Blanche grabs it with both hands.

Jane sits there, twirling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, and I watch her mind work. I
like not knowing exactly what she’ll do, and it is oddly satisfying to see how shallow her loyalty to
Eddie really is.
I hadn’t lost him after all.
It surprises me how much that thrills me.
But maybe it shouldn’t. Some of the things in the diary were for show, to cover my tracks—the
majority of it, really—but the sex? The way I felt about Eddie?
That had all been real.
But then Jane sits up a little straighter and says, “We should call the police. Tell them what Eddie
did. Let him pay the consequences.”
Is she playing with me, or is that what she really wants? The ambiguity that I’d enjoyed so much
just a moment ago is now irritating, and I wave one hand, finishing my wine.
“Later,” I say. “Let me enjoy a few hours of being out of that room before I’m stuck answering a
bunch of questions.”
Looking around, I add, “You really didn’t do anything new with the place, did you?”
Jane doesn’t answer that, but leans closer, reaching for my hand. “Bea,” she says. “We can’t just
sit here. Eddie murdered Blanche. He could’ve murdered you. We have to—”
“We don’t have to do anything,” I reply, yanking my hand out from under hers and standing up.

“The stressful part is always making the decision,” Bea used to remind her employees. “Once
you’ve made it, it’s done, and you feel better.”
That’s how it was with Blanche.
Once Bea has decided that she has to die, it’s easy enough, and the rest of the steps fall into
place. She invites Blanche to the lake house, then texts Tripp at the last minute. She’s going to
need a fall guy this time, after all. One person dying in an accident while she’s alone with them is
one thing. Two would be harder to pull off.
So, Tripp.
Blanche is not happy when he shows up.
“I thought this was supposed to be a girls’ trip,” she says, and Tripp settles on the couch next
to her, already drinking a vodka tonic.
“And I am a Girls’ Tripp,” he jokes, which is so terrible that for a moment Bea thinks maybe
she should kill him, too.
But no, she needs Tripp to play a part in all this.
He does it well, too. Blanche is so irritated he’s there that she drinks even more than Bea had
hoped, glass after glass of wine, then the vodka Tripp is drinking.
And when Tripp passes out, as Bea had known he would thanks to the Xanax she’d put in his
drink, Blanche actually laughs with Bea, the two of them dragging his limp body into the master
bedroom, Bea pretending to be just as drunk as Blanche.
That’s the thing she remembers the most about it all later. Blanche was happy that night. It had
mostly been the booze, but still, Bea had given her that.
One last Girls’ Night Out.
When they get onto the pontoon boat Bea bought for Eddie last year, Blanche is so unsteady,
Bea has to guide her to her seat.
More drinks.
The sky overhead is dark, too, a new moon that night, nothing to illuminate what happens.
As with Mama, Bea doesn’t have to do that much work, really.
When Blanche has slumped into unconsciousness, it’s a simple matter of taking the hammer
she’d bought, the heavy one, the one that looks exactly like the kind of unsubtle murder weapon a
guy like Tripp would buy, and she brings it down.
Once. Twice. Three times. A sickening crunch giving way to a meaty, wet sound, and then she’s
rolling Blanche off the deck of the boat. It’s dark, and her hair is the last thing Bea sees, sinking
under the lake.
She stands there and waits to feel something.
Regret, horror. Anything, really. But again, once it’s done, she’s mostly just relieved and a little
tired.
Swimming back to the house is something of a chore, her arms cutting through the warm water,
her brain conjuring images of alligators, water moccasins. Below her, she knows there’s a flooded
forest, and it’s hard not to imagine the dead branches reaching up for her like skeletal hands, to
see her body drifting down with Blanche’s to lay in that underwater wood.
Something brushes against her foot at one point, and she gives a choked scream that sounds
too loud in the quiet night, lake water filling her mouth, tasting like minerals and something
vaguely rotten, and she spits, keeps swimming.
The story is so simple. Girls’ weekend. Tripp showing up unexpectedly. They went out on the
boat, they drank too much. Bea fell asleep or passed out, to the sound of Tripp and Blanche
arguing. When she woke up, Blanche was gone, and Tripp was passed out. Bea panicked, dove in
the water trying to save her best friend, and when she couldn’t find her, swam back to the house.
Tripp had been so drunk he won’t have any idea what happened, won’t even remember he
wasn’t on the boat, and everyone knew he and Blanche were having problems. Maybe he’ll luck out
and they’ll assume Blanche fell or jumped in of her own accord, never finding her body there at
the bottom of the lake. Maybe they will find it, see that hole in her skull, and think he murdered
her.
Either one works for Bea.
And it all would have been just that easy had Eddie not come along and fucked it all up.
He’s in the house when Bea walks up the dock, his eyes going wide as he sees her. She doesn’t
even think about how she must look, soaking wet, shivering even though it’s hot. All she can think
is, Why is he here?
And that’s it—the moment she loses it all.
She should’ve been paying more attention to just how weird it was that he was there, to that
panicked look on his face. Eddie never had handled being surprised well, and like a lot of men, he
always thought he was smarter than he actually was.
Bea had always believed that a man who overestimates his intelligence is a man who can be
easily manipulated. Turns out, he’s also a man who can be really dangerous.
Later, she wanted to tell him just how badly he’d fucked it all up, that she would’ve taken care
of it, that she had taken care of it, just like she always did, but of course Eddie rushed in without
thinking, just like always.

Chapter 36 of “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” by Anne Brontë, titled “Dual Solitude,” delves into the complexities of a deteriorating marriage through the eyes of the narrator, marking the third anniversary of her union with her husband. This period in their lives is characterized by a profound emotional distance and a mutual acknowledgment of the absence of love, friendship, and sympathy between them. Despite the strained relationship, the narrator strives to maintain a semblance of peace and civility in their shared life, especially for the sake of their child. The husband, initially morose and irritable following the departure of a woman named Annabella, exhibits a volatile mixture of resentment and indifference towards the narrator, occasionally succumbing to bouts of drinking which he defensively justifies as a reaction to the narrator’s demeanor.

The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of their isolated existence, highlighting the narrator’s efforts to cope with her husband’s deteriorating affection and increasing indulgence in vices, particularly his drinking habit, which she attributes to his weak character and her own lost influence over him. The strain in their relationship is further exacerbated by the husband’s offensive letters from Lady Lowborough, revealing a continuing improper connection that deeply wounds the narrator. Despite these challenges, the narrator momentarily considers softening her approach towards her husband in hopes of positively influencing him, only to be met with unappreciation and arrogance that solidify her resolve to maintain emotional distance.

Amid these domestic tensions, the presence of Mr. Hargrave and Arthur’s interactions with him serve as distractions for both the narrator and her husband, though they do little to mend the underlying discord in their marriage. The narrator’s complex feelings—ranging from disappointment, resentment, to fleeting moments of compassion towards her husband—are poignantly portrayed, demonstrating her struggle to preserve her dignity and parental responsibility in the face of marital disillusionment. The chapter concludes with a poignant scene of the narrator’s deep emotional turmoil as she seeks solace in her love for her child, underscoring the chapter’s themes of isolation, the quest for personal integrity, and the painful awareness of unreciprocated affection and values within the confines of a disintegrating marriage.