As Tripp groans against her neck, Bea thinks about how she’ll have to send Caroline one of those new block color prints they just got in for Southern Manors’ summer line.

As soon as it’s over, Tripp is surprisingly remorseful, rubbing his hand over his face and saying, “I don’t know why I did that.”

Bea knows exactly why she did it—to get back at Blanche and Eddie, to take from Blanche before Blanche can take from her—but she feels empty all the same.

Later, Tripp texts her.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry, either.

Bea knows exactly how he feels.

PART VII

JANE

24

JULY

Over the next few weeks, I resolve to trust Eddie, to be the fiancée he wants and deserves. I go ahead and buy the dress I wanted from Irene’s in the village, complete with a veil, new shoes, the whole thing.

And we talk about the wedding more. We’re still planning on something small and simple, but here in Birmingham now, no more talk of eloping. We’re back on track, finally.

I take up jogging even though the summer weather is getting oppressive, and Eddie warns me that I’m going to die of heatstroke. But I actually like the heat early in the morning, before the humidity sets in, the grass still wet and jewel-green as the sun climbs over the horizon. It feels good, the sweat running down my back, stinging my eyes behind my sunglasses.

Sometimes I see Emily and Campbell. They’re always walking, not running, and while Emily always waves at me and grins, there’s something tight in Campbell’s smile.

This morning, though, the streets are empty, the July temps too much for most people, even at 8 A.M., and I find myself turning down Tripp’s street.

A first-degree murder charge, and he’s still at home.

That’s rich white guys for you, though.

I try not to think of Phoenix, of Mr. Brock gasping on the floor, of the sick fear I’ve lived with ever since that moment. If they’d caught me, if they’d found out what I did, do you think I’d be able to just hang out at Eddie’s until the trial?

No, I’d be in an orange jumpsuit before I’d even had time to say the words not guilty.

It’s another reminder that this world, the world these people live in, might as well be a different planet.

Tripp’s lawyer was able to prove his client wasn’t a flight risk, so he’s still here in Thornfield Estates, waiting for the trial, which is still months away.

I tell myself that by the time he goes to trial, it won’t matter as much. Eddie and I will be married by then, and even though Eddie will certainly have to testify, I can stay out of it.

That hasn’t stopped me from reading everything I can about the case, though. I know that when they found Blanche, there was a massive fracture in her skull, and that Tripp had bought a hammer just a few days before Blanche went to the lake.

Dumbass used his credit card at the hardware store in Overton Village.

The theory is that Tripp surprised the women, talked them into taking out the boat even though they were all completely fucked up, and that something happened. A fight, an argument. Tripp was drunk, they all were. And it ended with Blanche in the water.

They don’t know about Bea. Maybe she was screaming and he hit her, too. Maybe she was passed out, or down below in the boat when it all started going down. Maybe she came up, confused, disoriented, and Tripp pushed her overboard.

The cops have admitted to Eddie that getting a murder charge to stick to Tripp for Bea might be harder since they still haven’t found her body and since there’s no evidence on the boat. No blood, no DNA. It’s all conjecture at this point, which is another part of why Tripp’s lawyer was able to get him bail.

Well, that and Rich White Dude Privilege.

I pause now outside his house, a stitch in my side that I pinch with one hand as I stare at the windows, wondering what Tripp is doing in there. What he’s thinking.

Eddie says he won’t do much jail time, even if he’s found guilty, because guys like him never do. Since the case is still mostly circumstantial, the DA might lower the charge to manslaughter, for a better shot at conviction. Tripp’s lawyers will argue that all the prosecution has is Blanche’s body, and a crack running up the back of her head. The fact that Tripp bought a hammer doesn’t mean he used it to kill his wife, and she could’ve hit her head when she fell off the boat.

Upstairs, there’s a flicker of movement, a drape being pulled back slightly, and I know Tripp is watching me.

I wait on the sidewalk for a bit, wondering if he’ll come out or try to talk to me, but there are no further signs of life, and after a moment, I jog on.

The house is empty when I get home, Eddie already off to work, and I stop in the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge and resting one hip against the counter as I drink deep, the water so cold it makes my teeth and my temple ache.

I’ve just set the bottle down when I hear a noise.

It’s a thump from somewhere upstairs, just like the one I heard that night the cops first came to tell us about Blanche, and I stand there, frozen, listening.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like someone picking up and dropping something heavy.

“Hello?” I call. “Is someone there?”

Excellent, I’ve gone the full horror movie. Soon I’ll be running down to the basement in my underwear in the dark.

But then there’s a thump again, and my heart beats faster.

I move across the living room slowly, quietly, my ear cocked toward the ceiling, but there isn’t another sound. I can’t hear anything except the purring of the air conditioner and my own rasping breath.

The silence feels loud, weighted, my sweat cooling so fast on my skin that now I’m cold, and when my phone trills, I shriek.

My hands are even shaking slightly as I pull it out of the little pocket in my yoga pants, and I see Eddie’s name on the screen.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says when I pick up, and he sounds so relaxed, so casual, that my heartbeat slows a little, some of the fear draining from my veins. “Just calling to see how your day was going.”

I can hear noise in the background, the thwap of hammers on boards, a distant buzzsaw, so I know he must be on a job site, and I try to picture him there, his shirt rumpled, his sunglasses on.