Part of me felt responsible. Had I just tried choking her again as an infant, or leaving an open bottle of bleach near her as a toddler, or ramming the passenger side of my car into a tree while she was unbuckled with the airbag turned off, all of it could have been avoided. So many potential accidents I could have staged. Should have staged.

Had I stopped Harper before she acted, we would still have Chastin.

And then maybe Jeremy wouldn’t be so fucking sad all the time.

Verity is in the living room. April brought her down in the elevator right before she left for the evening. An unusual change in their routine that I’m not sure I like.

April said, “She’s wide awake this evening. I thought I’d let Jeremy put her to bed tonight.” She left her in front of the television, her wheelchair parked near the sofa.

Verity is watching Wheel of Fortune.

Or…staring in that direction, anyway.

I’m standing in the doorway to the living room, looking at her. Jeremy is upstairs with Crew. It’s dark outside, and the living room light isn’t on, but there’s enough light from the television that I can see Verity’s expressionless face.

I can’t imagine anyone going to such great lengths to fake an injury for this long. I’m not even sure how someone could pull it off. Would she startle at a loud noise?

Next to me, near the entryway to the living room, is a bowl full of decorative glass balls mixed in with wooden ones. I look around, then pluck one of the wooden ones out of the bowl. I toss it in her direction. When it hits the floor in front of her, she doesn’t flinch.

I know she’s not paralyzed, so how does she not even flinch? Even if her brain damage is too severe to understand the English language, she’d still be alarmed by noise, right? Have some kind of reaction?

Unless she’s trained herself to not react.

I watch her for a little longer before I start to creep myself out with my own thoughts again.

I return to the kitchen, leaving her alone with Pat Sajak and Vanna White.

There are only two chapters left of Verity’s manuscript. I’m praying I don’t find a part two anywhere before I leave here because I can’t take the ups and downs of it all. The anxiety I get after every chapter is worse than the anxiety I get after I sleepwalk.

I’m relieved she had nothing to do with Chastin’s death, but disturbed by her thought process during all of it. She seemed so detached. Two-dimensional. She’d lost her fucking daughter, yet all she thought about was how she should have killed Harper, and she was fed up with waiting for Jeremy to get over his grief.

Disturbing is putting it mildly. Luckily, it’s coming to an end soon. Most of the manuscript details things that happened years ago, but this last chapter was more recent. Less than a year ago. Months before Harper’s death.

Harper’s death.

It’s the thing I plan to get to next. Maybe tonight. I don’t know. I haven’t slept well the last few days, and I’m worried after I finish the manuscript, I won’t be able to sleep at all.

I’m making spaghetti for Jeremy and Crew tonight. I try to focus on dinner and not at all on Verity’s lack of a soul. I purposely timed this meal so that April would be gone before dinner was ready. And I’m hoping Jeremy takes Verity up to bed before it’s time to eat. My birthday is almost over, and I’ll be damned if I eat my birthday meal seated next to Verity Crawford.

I’m stirring the pasta sauce when I realize I haven’t heard the television in a few minutes. I carefully loosen my grip on the spoon, placing it on the stove next to the pan.

“Jeremy?” I say, hoping he’s in the living room. Hoping he’s the reason there’s no sound coming from the television anymore.

“Be down in a second!” he calls from upstairs.

I close my eyes, already feeling the quickening of my pulse. If this bitch turned off that goddamn television, I’m walking out that front door without shoes on and I’m never coming back.

I clench my fists at my sides, growing really tired of this shit. This house. And that fucking creepy-ass, psychotic woman.

I don’t tiptoe into the living room. I stomp.

The television is still on, but it’s no longer making noise. Verity is still in the same position. I walk over to the table next to her wheelchair and snatch up the remote. The television is now on mute, and I am over this. I’m over this. Televisions don’t just mute themselves!

“You’re a fucking cunt,” I mutter.

My own words shock me, but not enough to walk away. It’s as if every word I read of her manuscript fans the flames inside of me. I unmute the television and drop the remote on the couch, out of her reach. I kneel down in front of her, positioning myself so that I’m directly in her line of sight. I’m shaking, but not from fear this time. I’m shaking because I am so angry at her. Angry at the type of wife she was to Jeremy. The kind of mother she was to Harper. And I’m angry that all this weird shit keeps happening and I’m the only one who is witnessing it. I’m tired of feeling crazy!

“You don’t even deserve the body you’re trapped in,” I whisper, staring straight into her eyes. “I hope you die with a throat full of your own vomit, the same way you attempted to kill your infant daughter.”

I wait. If she’s in there…if she heard me…if she’s faking it…my words would reach her. They would make her flinch or lash out or something.

She doesn’t move. I try to think of something else to say that would make her react. Something she wouldn’t be able to keep her composure after hearing. I stand up and lean into her, bringing my mouth to her ear. “Jeremy is going to fuck me in your bed tonight.”

I wait again…for a noise…for a movement.

The only thing I notice is the smell of urine. It fills the air. My nostrils.

I look down at her pants right when Jeremy begins to descend the stairs. “Did you need me?”

I back away from her, accidentally kicking the wooden ball I tossed toward her earlier. I motion toward Verity while bending down for the ball. “She just… She needs to be changed, I think.”

Jeremy grabs the handles of her wheelchair and pushes her out of the living room, toward the elevator. I bring a hand to my face, covering my mouth and nose as I exhale.

I don’t know why I’ve never been curious about who bathes her or changes her. I assumed the nurse took care of most of that, but she obviously doesn’t do it all. That Verity is incontinent and has to wear diapers and be bathed makes me feel even sorrier for him. Jeremy is now taking her upstairs to do both of those things and it makes me angry.

Angry at Verity.

Surely her current state is a result of the terrible human she’s been to her children and to Jeremy. Now, for the rest of his life, Jeremy will have to suffer the consequences of Verity’s karma.

It isn’t right.

And even though she flinched at nothing I said, the fact that I seemed to scare her has me convinced she’s in there. Somewhere. And now she knows I’m not afraid of her.

•••

I ate dinner at the table with Crew, who played on his iPad the whole time. I wanted to wait for Jeremy, but I knew he didn’t want Crew to eat alone and it was getting past his bedtime. While Jeremy was tending to Verity, I put Crew to bed. By the time Jeremy got her showered, changed, and put to bed, the spaghetti was cold.

Jeremy finally comes downstairs as I’m washing the dishes. We haven’t talked much since our kiss. I’m not sure what the vibe will be between us, or if we’re going to be awkward and go our separate ways after he eats. I can hear him behind me, munching on garlic bread as I continue to wash the dishes.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“What?”

“Missing dinner.”

I shrug. “You didn’t miss it. Eat.”

He takes a bowl out of the cabinet and fills it with spaghetti. He puts it in the microwave and then leans into the counter next to me. “Lowen.”

I look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, Jeremy. It’s not my place.”

“It is now that you said that.”

I don’t want to have this conversation with him. It really isn’t my place. This is his life. His wife. His house. And I’m only going to be here for another two days at the most. I dry my hands on a towel just as the microwave beeps. He doesn’t move to open it because he’s too busy staring at me, attempting to coax more out of me with that look.