Chapter 31

When I answer the door, the woman is wearing a turtleneck sweater, hiding behind her husband. He’s tall and charming, as they so often are. He smiles and holds his hand out, introducing himself as Dr. Martin.

I politely take his hand and step back, allowing him inside.

Jane and Cate are waiting in the living room to talk to him all about his growing practice, fluff his ego, and distract him, while Lily asks what his drink of choice is, and I pull his wife away to help her toward the tunnels. If she leaves now, she can make it into town in time to create an alibi.

Lily is in the kitchen when I return, sorting through the various dried petals we’ve collected from Vera’s flower garden. She knows all about which ones do what thing, and she’s slowly teaching me.

They’re getting older, something that’s undeniable. Someday, they’ll be gone, too, and this will be all I have left of them. Their names, their legacies, their knowledge, their stories.

It won’t get to be told, passed down through generations like it should, because their work isn’t the kind you brag about. It’s the kind that’s necessary. Important. But done only in secret.

Cole comes into the room, giving us a warning that the women are on their way while Lily stirs Dr. Martin’s glass of bourbon and passes it to me. When he enters the room, I hand him the tumbler before taking my wineglass from Cole.

Though Edna never wanted us to be involved in this side of the Bitter House legacy, Cole was the one who initially brought it up. In a way, he sees it as making up for the bad that his father did. Erasing it from his DNA somehow, covering up the stain.

Edna stays out of it, though I know it bothers her. She loves us just as she always has and just as she loved Vera, but she’s not cut out for this part of what we do. It’s too hard for her.

Still, I’ve gotten my wish. Though I didn’t get the family I hoped for—we haven’t spoken to Jenn or Zach since their legal battle over the will ended uneventfully—I managed to form a family of my own.

That’s what we are: Cole, Jane, Cate, Lily, Edna, and me. Family dinners, holidays and all.

“Where’s my wife?” Dr. Martin asks, his voice full of possession. She’s not a person to him, but something to own. To claim.

“Bathroom,” I mutter.

His lips press into a hard line, and I can tell he’s not happy, but Cole distracts him again, asking about the sports car in the driveway. By dinner, the man is telling us all about his latest bid for mayor, and Lily has promised to make a big donation to his campaign.

It doesn’t take long before he starts looking sleepy, though it’s longer than we’d prefer. He’s very boring, and the conversation is well past dragging at this point. When he goes down, we do a bit of a silent cheer, both because he’ll never hurt anyone else, but also because we’ll never have to hear him overuse the word ambience again.

Every time is a little bit different, but it’s worth it. Maybe it’s not right, like Vera said, but it’s necessary. A lot has changed from the days when Vera wrote those first entries, but so much hasn’t. Women still aren’t protected like we should be. Men are given pass after pass, and women are given slips of paper for protection that mean nothing. Women have to prove everything while men are given the benefit of the doubt. If we speak up, it could ruin their lives, and they’re such nice guys, so why would we do that?

Instead, we hold our keys between our fingers, walk faster or take another way home, send our location to friends from the back of a rideshare, or grit our teeth and bear it while another sexist remark is made by our boss or another scene of senseless cruelty is shown on television. Because if we don’t, we’re part of the problem. We’re uptight. We can’t take a joke.

It’s not all men, I know, but it is all women. A collective of shared experience, of intuition, of whispered warnings and knowing looks.

Don’t get me wrong, I know there are nice guys left because I have one. I reach over and squeeze his hand under the table, so thankful for Vera, who saw what I couldn’t all those years ago.

That night, when we’re climbing into bed, bodies and palms sore and raw from digging yet another grave, I catch myself pausing when I spot a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I do that more and more these days.

Perhaps it’s the silver that’s starting to highlight my blonde hair, or maybe the delicate wrinkles near my eyes, but either way, as the years pass, I find it impossible to miss the resemblance to my grandmother.

She was beautiful, it’s undeniable, but now I see the strength I always wrote off as coldness. The determination that always felt callous.

I see her truth, her passion, and her heart in my own eyes, and I couldn’t be more grateful for everything she’s done for me.

As I slide my wedding ring off and place it on the nightstand, I check my phone and see a new text message from Ana with an updated photo of Teddy and Olivia. A smile crosses my lips as I reply, letting her know how much I miss them all and how I can’t wait for their next visit.

When I ease back onto the bed, my hand slips into Cole’s. He squeezes it gently, massaging my tired muscles, and I smile to myself again.

Vera might’ve been stubborn, but these days, that feels less like a flaw and more like a superpower. I hope someday I’m half the woman she was. That I’ll have been able to help half the women she saved.

The hidden logbook is full of countless names, pages and pages of reasons for each death written in Vera’s unmistakable hand. In her journal, she said she wanted to leave a legacy, and she has. The kind of legacy only the most stubborn, powerful woman could leave.

I release a long, peaceful sigh, settling in as Bitter House quiets all around us, keeping us safe and warm. As I close my eyes, Cole places one final kiss on my lips, pulling me into his chest, and I can’t help thinking this house has never felt more like a home.