Chapter 46

My childhood home is as I left it except for the sewing machine that has taken up residence in my bedroom. Although my mother claims that she's happy to have me home and tells me that I can stay as long as I need, I sense some resentment as I help her carry her collection of fabrics to the unfinished basement.

She left everything on the walls. All the posters from my teen years, pictures with my former friends. They're hard to throw away at first and then, once I get going, there's pleasure in it. I'm so good at ridding myself of the things that no longer serve me.

I paint the formerly lilac walls a sensible gray. My mom looks sad when I show her.

"What's wrong? I thought you'd be happy," I say.

"I kind of liked it the way it was before," she replies without explanation.

We don't talk about what happened with William. While helping unpack, my mother found my engagement ring tucked inside of a box. She picked it up, watched as the diamond flashed in the light, looked at me, and then put it back in the box and said nothing. There are things that a parent doesn't need to know about their child.

I get a job as a barista at a locally owned coffee shop where I used to go to in high school to work on my homework. I get to know the regulars who pass the daily paper amongst themselves like they're sitting at a giant kitchen table. I memorize their favorite drinks and pastries and that information fills space in my brain where other things used to go. The nice ones learn my name and greet me each morning like I'm a friend. I know that I'm not though, not really.

Some days I wish that I had a scar. Something violent that redefines my appearance. No one knows who I am here, which is supposed to be a good thing. I attend a yoga class a few days a week when I get off work in the afternoon and I always place my mat at the back of the room. I've gained some weight and the expensive yoga clothes that William bought me no longer fit. It doesn't matter because no one in the room looks at me, wonders what it's like to be the girlfriend of an accused serial killer. It's fine to be invisible. I didn't love William for fame. I didn't mean to love William at all. It was just something that happened.

I'm thinking about writing a memoir. I don't know where to start or where to finish. I don't know how to tell the story of myself without exposing Bentley, and by extension William, to the world.

I sporadically apply for other jobs. I don't look at the qualifications and send out résumés everywhere. This seems like something a man who was in my position would do. I've decided to let my career choose me instead of the other way around. I've gotten a few interviews, but no job offers. I worry there's something about me, a scent, that keeps employers away.

I hang out with friends a couple of times before I realize that it's making me unhappy and I prefer to be at home streaming television on my laptop. My friends know some version of what happened to me, but they're scared to ask for the whole story. From the alien looks they give me, I presume that Meghan told them I went to Georgia to watch the trial and that I was in love with William. They never acknowledge this; our conversations revolve solely around the weather and things that we've cooked recently, though I can tell the murdered women hang heavy on their tongues. When Meghan texts me to tell me that it would be best if I didn't go to her wedding, I tell her I understand, though it makes me deeply sad.

I call Dotty after I've been home a few weeks. She and her husband have just returned from a trip to the Virgin Islands, where they renewed their vows.

"Things have improved since I got back," she says. "He's different this time, better."

Dotty doesn't say that she is also different and better. Sometimes the standards that we hold for other people are different from the standards that we hold ourselves to.

Dotty has been in touch with Lauren, who's dating a boy that she met in one of her criminal justice classes. Dotty doesn't think that it'll last.

"There's a spell that comes over us in our youth," Dotty says. "We chase after things that we know aren't good for us just so that we can say that we did it. No one wants a healthy relationship when they're nineteen. They only want passion."

We talk briefly about what happened between William and me.

"We got engaged," I say. "But it didn't work out."

I still write William letters. He never responds. I'm not even sure that he's getting them. His absence has left the void that breakups aways leave. Those silly little things that I'm desperate to tell him and can't.

Dear William,

I applied for a job as a receptionist at a law firm today. It made me think of you.

Dear William,

I've kept up with my yoga practice. You're right, these yoga pants really hold up.

Dear William,

My parents are driving me crazy today. I need to get my own place.

Dear William,

I tried to masturbate tonight and I can't get my body to feel anything.

Dear William,

I've spent a lot of time questioning what I wanted from you since I've been home and I still don't know. I want to reassure you that I only ever wanted love, but I'm not sure that's true anymore.

Sometimes I think about writing Virginia to tell her what happened and to make sure that the kids are okay, but I can't find the words for what I need to say.

I can't stop eating. In the mornings, I eat a bagel smothered in cream cheese at the coffee shop and a sandwich for lunch with chips on the side. I eat dinner with my parents and indulge in the heavy Midwestern casseroles that my mom favors. I ask for seconds because it makes both of us feel good. When I put on clothes and find that they no longer fit, I'm indifferent. I stare at myself in the mirror and all I can think is Oh.

I go on dates with men that I meet on dating apps. I don't have any recent photos of myself, so I post pictures from my twenties and they all look disappointed when they see me. I don't care because I'm disappointed when I see them too. I figure that the worst thing that can happen is that they can try to kill me and that's already happened once and I survived.

The men aren't as handsome as William. They don't charm me. They're ordinary men with ordinary jobs and ordinary brothers. I sleep with one of them and the sex is fine, average. Two lumpy people in their thirties banging together. Nobody dies.

I read a lot of books. Mysteries where someone is murdered and it's always the husband who is the suspect. The books become boring as I become adept in my literary detective skills, always figuring out who did it before the end. I keep reading in hopes of finding a book that will truly thrill me.

Underneath it all, the mundanity of my day-to-day, I'm waiting for Bentley to find me and kill me.

I see Bentley everywhere. Out of the corner of my eye while I'm walking my parents' dog, the next aisle over in the grocery store, in the face of every tall white man who comes into the coffee shop while I'm working. It's not really him, of course. Not yet. It turns out when you're looking for one, serial killers are everywhere. I'm not one of those paranoid women though, the ones that look for danger everywhere. Bentley tried to kill me once and he'll do it again. He's not the kind of person to give up on his dreams.

When we said goodbye for the final time, William assured me that Bentley wouldn't try to seek me out.

"He's too scared of going to prison," he said. "If he even enters the same state as you, I won't hesitate to call the police."

I know that William's wrong, that Bentley will come to me eventually, just not for the reason that he thinks.

I consider calling the police and telling them what I know, but the only evidence that I have is my words, and those aren't worth much. Besides, it gives me a little thrill to think about Bentley still out there, biding his time until we meet again. It puts a pep in my step as I walk from my car to the grocery store or as I stumble through the darkness from my bed to the bathroom. Though I know that he isn't hiding under my bed, just the thought of his name makes my spine tingle. I think more than I should about the time we shared when I was tied up. There is nothing sexy about being killed, but that doesn't stop me from turning it into a fantasy.

Max Yulipsky and Reese come into the coffee shop late in March, six months after my return home. They don't see me at first and I watch them as they examine the pastries on display, finally settling on splitting an apple fritter.

They move like people in love, one of them always with a hand on the other. Max and I never did anything like this when we were sleeping together. If I was lucky, one of his roommates made a pot in the decrepit coffee maker.

"Hannah," Max says when he sees me, his eyes widening.

I know from Instagram that Max has gotten a real job for which he wears a button-down shirt and answers email all day. The band is on hiatus. In his posts, he sounded happy about these changes. There was no mention of becoming a sellout, only that it was time.

"Hey, Max." I give him a big smile.

The honey blond dye job has long since grown out and I haven't bothered to dye my hair again. The roots are unflattering, but it's always an uncomfortable process to return to yourself after a brief voyage elsewhere.

"What can I get you today?"

Max orders black coffee and Reese a blended cold drink. Max used to judge girls like that, people who ordered sweet beverages lined with caramel.

"I like girls who can tolerate some bitterness," he said, which led to me attempting to become the type of girl who liked black coffee.

I guess people are willing to put anything aside for the person that they love.

I bring Max his coffee and make Reese's drink. Max hangs around the counter after Reese has already taken a seat at a table by the window.

"How have you been, Hannah?" he asks.

"So good," I say. "I went to Georgia for a few months last year. It was amazing."

"Cool, cool. What are you doing now?"

"Oh, you know. I got this job temporarily. You know, until something better comes along. I've been applying to a lot of different types of places."

"Yeah," Max says, and looks at me again before going to sit down next to Reese. I see him glance back in my direction several times and I ignore it, which makes me feel powerful.

I know what he's looking at. It has become impossible to hide, not that I was ever trying to hide it to begin with. I wear it like a badge of honor, a mark of my almost death and the killer who wanted me.

I put my hand on my belly, my uterus swollen with pregnancy. The baby kicks at my touch. I don't know who the father is, but it doesn't matter much when all the possibilities share a gene pool. It will be up to the child to tell me who he is when he arrives and I will know who to blame if the bodies start to pile up once again.