Chapter 22

As mad as I am at her, the temptation to hear from Vera again is undeniable. The solace I find in seeing her handwriting disturbs me—I should not want to hear from her. She’s a murderer. She lied to me. She kicked me out.

But no matter how many times I repeat these things in my head, the truth is there, as real as the heartbeat in my chest: I want her to prove me wrong. And somehow, I know that she won’t. I know that she’s going to let me down once again. Just like I’ve always known whoever is writing me these letters knows the truth about everything.

Somewhere deep in my core, like a piece of fruit rotting, I’ve felt it. I’ve felt the way my entire world is getting ready to crumble. I’m on the precipice of it all falling apart.

I sink onto the carpeted floor of her closet, turning to the first page, and with a deep breath, I begin to read.

I was never sure about changing my last name after I was married. Isn’t that funny? In those days especially, it was unheard of for a woman to think of such things. But I was a Shuffle, had been all my life. My daddy was a Shuffle and his daddy and so on, and I guess in some strange way, it felt like giving up the last piece of myself if I chose to do it.

…if I’m being honest, I loved the weight the last name carried. Being a Bitter in this town, I might as well be a Rockefeller or a Kennedy.

…I can still picture it now, if I try. The way that smile made me feel could be studied. Books could be written about it. But…like all the best stories, it had to end. And, when it did, I was grateful I had the Bitter name. Because that’s exactly what I was: bitter.

…Reggie came along when I was still trying to find my place. I’ve always been a stubborn child. Momma and Daddy used to say I’ll be too stubborn to die one day, and I have no evidence to the contrary.

…she was scared. She was trying. But she was poor. Her options were limited.

…the first time I ever held my husband’s gun was the night I killed a man. And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

My heart stops as I read those words. The admission in Vera’s own hand. She was a killer. Worse…she killed Edna’s husband. Cole’s dad. There were so many other possibilities of how to deal with the threat he posed. So many other ways she could have handled it. She said it herself: she was powerful. She could’ve made him leave. She could’ve had him arrested. Hired security to keep them safe. She had so many other options than the one she chose.

Then my chest turns to ice. The man in the woods—the body—it might be Cole’s dad.

Oh god.

I feel sick. My stomach churns with the thought of it. The fingers, the bones he unearthed, could’ve been his own flesh and blood. How can I ever tell him?

Before I have my answer decided, I hear the bedroom door open farther. His light footsteps tap across the floor as he makes his way through the room, closing the space between us. I slam the book shut seconds before he appears.

When he does, his eyebrow quirks up. “Why are you on the floor?”