Then the sounds stop.

I stand there, practically holding my breath, the empty beer bottle dangling from my fingers as I wait.

Three sharp raps at the front door make me nearly jolt out of my skin, one of the bottles crashing to the floor as I make a sound somewhere between a shriek and a gasp.

It’s coming from the front of the house, though, not upstairs. Someone knocking at the door.

“Jane?”

I see Eddie through the glass door, still sitting outside, the words tossed casually over his shoulder, his head barely turned toward me.

I scowl at the back of that head, that perfectly tousled hair. “I’m fine,” I call back. “Just someone at the door.”

There’s another knock just as I reach the foyer, and when I open the door, a woman is standing there.

She’s wearing khakis and a blue button-down, and there’s a badge snapped to her waist.

She’s a cop.

My heart is beating so fast in my chest that I feel like she must be able to see it, and I lay a hand there against my collarbone, suddenly grateful I have the diamonds and emerald on my finger, to let her know I am somebody.

I have no reason to be afraid anymore, I remind myself. The woman standing on the porch doesn’t see the girl I used to be, doesn’t know the things I’ve done. There’s no suspicion in her gaze, no narrowed eyes and thinned lips. She sees a woman who belongs in this house, a woman wearing Ann Taylor and real jewels, a woman whose dishwater-blond hair isn’t pulled back into a scraggly ponytail, a woman wearing the kind of expensive makeup that’s meant to make her look like she’s not wearing any makeup at all.

That’s who she sees—the future Mrs. Jane Rochester.

But my body doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge that. Heart still pounds, stomach churns, knees go watery.

“Hi there.” She smiles, offers her hand to shake.

“I’m Detective Laurent, and I sure am sorry for interrupting your dinner.”

Her hand is warm and callused, and I shake it even as my left hand stays where it is, pressed to my chest.

“We weren’t eating,” I say, and then I think about Campbell and Emily, how they would handle a detective on their doorstep on a spring evening.

“Has something happened?” I ask, furrowing my brow with concern and also confusion. A police officer showing up at their houses would only be confusing, after all, hardly a cause for personal concern, because of course they hadn’t done anything wrong. In Thornfield Estates, police weren’t to be feared, they were to be trusted. They were always on your side, after all.

Detective Laurent frowns, deep parentheses forming on either side of her mouth. She’s older than I’d first realized, and now I can see the slight sprinkling of gray in her black hair.

“Is Mr. Rochester at home?” she asks, and my mouth is dry now. It’s happened. John has called someone, they know, that’s why I was remembering Phoenix earlier, because I somehow sensed that it was coming for me, that this was all over, that—

“Detective Laurent.”

Eddie is just behind me, and he slips an arm around my waist, his hand laying heavily on my hip. Just his touch makes me feel better, and I hate that a little bit. I’ve never been the type to cower behind a man, but I have to admit it’s nice to have him there, as the detective’s eyes drop to Eddie’s Rolex, to his bare feet on the marble floor.

“Nice to see you again,” he says, flashing a smile, and I blink, looking up at him.

Eddie’s nervous.

His body may be loose and relaxed against mine, but I know that Eddie doesn’t do this, doesn’t turn on this kind of charm for no reason.

And when I lower my eyes to his throat, tan, framed by the vivid green of his shirt, I can see his pulse thumping steadily there.

Detective Laurent smiles at him, but it’s tight, a perfunctory response rather than a genuine expression.

“We just had a few more questions to ask you, if you don’t mind,” she says. “About your wife.”

PART IV

BEA

Bea hadn’t wanted to do dinner with Blanche and Tripp tonight, but tradition is tradition, and this is theirs—every other Thursday night, the four of them meet up somewhere. Tonight, it’s a new place in Homewood, fancy barbecue, overpriced drinks. They sit outside in a courtyard at a wrought-iron table, fairy lights in the trees, and Bea fights the urge to check her phone every ten minutes.

She’s started to realize how little she actually has in common with Blanche these days, and lord knows, Eddie and Tripp don’t have much to talk about. They exhaust football as a topic of conversation before the first drinks arrive, and then Tripp launches into some diatribe about a new family moving into the neighborhood, how they’ve put up a basketball hoop, how he’s going to complain to the HOA.

Eddie smiles at him, but his voice has an edge to it as he says, “Or you could just let the kids play in their own driveway? Maybe the better option?”

“That’s what I told him,” Blanche says, rolling her eyes and reaching over to shove at Tripp’s arm. She hadn’t shown up half-drunk tonight, and her wineglass is still mostly full, which Bea takes as a good sign.

She also notices that Blanche looks nicer tonight than she has in a while, her makeup subtle, but pretty, her simple pink sheath dress making her complexion glow.

Another good sign.

Bea knows Blanche is unhappy, knows she’s bored with Tripp and Thornfield Estates and her life, that all the committees and boards she’s signed up for aren’t filling the void, but it’s nothing they’ve been able to talk about. Every time she tries to bring it up, Blanche changes the subject or, if she’s had too much wine, makes some catty comment about Bea working all the time.

But tonight, she’s relaxed, happy, and Bea is relieved to see it. Maybe the old Blanche is still in there after all.

They’ve just gotten their main courses when Blanche says, “You know, we were so inspired by the work y’all did on your house that Tripp and I were thinking about doing some renovations of our own.”

That’s a surprise. Bea knows that money has not exactly been abundant for the Ingrahams lately, but it’s not like she can say that out loud.

Apparently, she’s not the only one surprised. “We were?” Tripp asks. He’s on his third bourbon now, leaning back in his chair, his food mostly untouched on his plate, his cheeks red. He’s still handsome in his way, but every time they do one of these dinners, Bea can’t help but think how much better Eddie looks in comparison.