At night, I lie on the bed, and I try to picture her, this new woman I know Eddie has in his thrall.

Is she younger than me? Prettier?

Does she know what he is?

* * *

When Eddie came up tonight, he was a little drunk.

That was a first.

He brought me a bottle of wine, too.

Okay, a small box of wine, the type that holds three glasses. No corkscrews or glass for me, I guess, but still, I hadn’t had wine in so long, and the first sip went straight to my head.

Eddie sat on the bed next to me, his hand on my thigh, but he didn’t make any move to take it further than that, even though I wanted him to.

I hated myself for it, but I still wanted him to.

“You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?” I asked.

I was drunk enough to say it.

He was drunk enough to answer.

“I am.”

I’d been expecting that, but it still slammed into me, the words causing physical pain.

I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Who?” I asked, and his eyes clouded over a little as he looked away, his hand sliding from my leg.

“No one you know.”

That was all he would say.

He left right after that, brushing a kiss against my temple, and now I’m lying here, tears soaking my pillow.

They should be tears of fear. If Eddie has met someone, how much longer is he going to keep me in here? Surely, I’m a huge liability to him now.

But I’m not afraid.

I’m … angry.

Hurt.

Jealous.

* * *

Her name is Jane.

I got Eddie to tell me that much.

Today when he came in, I had just gotten out of the shower. That wasn’t intentional—I never know when he’ll show up, after all—but it still worked in my favor.

As soon as he saw me, standing there in a towel, his eyes went dark, hungry, and it was the easiest thing in the world to let the towel drop to the floor, to open my arms to him.

Afterward, he was like he always is after sex—looser, more vulnerable.

Easier.

“What she’s like?” I asked, and almost without thinking, he replied, “Jane?”

Jane.

Her name is Jane. A simple one. A plain one. Is she a simple, plain girl?

“She’s…” He trailed off, and I saw the guilt flicker across his face as he summoned her up in his mind even as he lay here in my bed.

“She’s nothing like you,” he finally said, and I wondered how he meant that.

But mostly, I wondered about her.

Was she downstairs in my house even now? Did she think about me, Eddie’s poor dead wife?

Did she hate me?

I would hate me if I were someone else.

* * *

APRIL, NINE MONTHS AFTER BLANCHE

It was stupid, the thing with the bed. I just wondered if she’d be able to hear it, Jane, somewhere below. I needed her to know that all of this—the house, the husband—are still mine.

Eddie asked me about it when he came up later. “Were you making noise up here?”

I spread my hands wide, inviting him to take in the room, to take in me. “How could I?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“Right,” he said, and turned to go.

I took his hand.

He didn’t leave.

* * *

MAY, TEN MONTHS AFTER BLANCHE

The days are relentlessly ticking by and I feel sanity slipping from me again. How has it been so many months since Blanche and I disappeared? And why am I still up here?

Sometimes it feels like I have my husband back. Some mornings I wake up convinced that this is the day that he’s going to tell me it’s all over, that I can come out of hiding now—until I remember her.

I know a lot about Jane now. She was a foster kid, she lived in Arizona. Eddie met her because she was walking dogs in the neighborhood, but she lived in Center Point with some creep. She has brown hair, like me, but a few shades lighter. Apparently, she’s funny.

And she’s twenty-three.

Twenty-three.

There was a softness in Eddie’s face when he talked about her. It wasn’t a look I was familiar with. Eddie had looked at me with hunger, with anger, with admiration, but never softness.

What does that mean? Does he love her?

Does he still love me?

Because I think I still love him. In spite of it all.

* * *

JUNE, ELEVEN MONTHS AFTER BLANCHE

I fucked up again.

Eddie came in today. He kissed me, he took me to the bed, he fucked me, and after it was over, I thought about him going back downstairs, back to Jane, and I said the thing that has been sitting inside me for weeks now.

“So is it hard, having a new girlfriend when you have a wife upstairs?”

He’d been getting dressed, and I saw the muscles in his back tense.

I shouldn’t have said it.

I’d had to say it.

And then he looked at me and said, “Is that really a problem you want me to focus on, Bea? Do you really want me to think about how I might solve it?”

He left right after that.

FUCK.

* * *

Still no sign of him. It’s been days. Is he just leaving me to die? That would certainly be an easy solution to his “problem.”

For him.

Not so easy for me.

I’ve got my little hoard of food and water, some of it hidden under the bed, and I’ve started counting it obsessively, even though I know the counting is bad, and I shouldn’t.

But I don’t know what else to do. It’s the only thing I feel in control of right now.

* * *

He came back today. Four days he left me on my own. I was so grateful to see him that I threw myself into his arms, breathing him in, and I felt his arms tighten around me, heard him murmur my name against my hair.

He’d missed me, too. But will it be enough?

* * *

JULY, A YEAR AFTER BLANCHE

This is my last entry. Eddie is in the shower, and I have to hurry.

Jane, I know you’ll find this. Eddie cares about you, respects you, and that means you’re smart. I’m putting this book in the pocket of his blazer. It’s too warm for him to put it back on when he goes downstairs, so I’m hoping he won’t even feel that it’s there.