I turn back and see that he’s put my pack in the corner of the room, where Grace’s dress had been. I’m about to rummage through it when I feel Bradley’s hands on my hips from behind. He presses against me and kisses the side of my neck.
“I’m getting déjàvu,” he whispers.
“Why’s my stuff in here?” I ask, stepping away. “I can’t sleep here.”
“I want you to,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone. Do you?”
I look over to the bed, their marital bed, the bed they shared for fifteen years. I don’t want to sleep alone, either.
“Just don’t get any ideas,” I say. “It’s not right.”
“Looking at you, I get nothing but ideas,” he says. “But OK. You’re right. No funny business.”
I kneel, awkwardly trying to keep the towel in place, and start to empty my pack.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Looking for pajamas.”
“Wear this.” I arch my neck and see that he’s holding a silky black nightdress. “It’s hot tonight.”
“Where did you get that?” I stand up and take it from him. It feels soft, expensive. “Did you buy it?”
“Of course not.” He nods to the wardrobe. “Where do you think?”
I toss it back at him like it’s burning my hands. “Bradley! How could you possibly think that’s a good idea?”
“Fine. Too soon.” He balls up the nightdress in his hand and moves to the door. “But this is all yours now, Brie. The house, the grounds, the clothes. I want to share it all with you. It doesn’t make you a bad person if you enjoy it.”
When he’s gone, I get changed into my old unwashed pajamas and try to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because I know this feeling, and it isn’t just nausea or disgust, though Iamdisgusted at Bradley. Part of me hates him for what he’s done. Someone might say that his wife had mental health problems and he killed her for it.
I don’t think that’s the truth, though. What Grace was, her strange and intense mind, can’t be explained away that easily. I didn’t see her as ill. She didn’t see herself that way, either.
So what is this feeling? I can hardly admit it, because in the eyes of someone like my mother, it makes me a terrible person.
But still, I feel it.
I’mexcited.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I sleep on Grace’s side of the bed, or at least I try to. But at 3 a.m., I’m staring at the ceiling, my tongue sandpaper, my head throbbing, that same scene repeating in my mind.
Bradley. The rock. Grace falling to her death.
I wake late and find my phone and Bradley’s laptop on his side of the bed. My phone is dead, but there’s a sticky note inside the laptop with a password.
Prelude1984.
I quickly log into my email and social media. There’s an onslaught of messages. I send perfunctory responses to some friends from college and ignore the group chats. I’m surprised there’s nothing from Neil in my texts, but then I remember that I blocked him.
I have over two hundred emails, but most are newsletters and spam. I manage to delete nearly all without a response. At the top of my inbox are three remaining messages—one update from LinkedIn, one newsletter from a nonprofit about penguins, and one update on my student loan.
I’m about to delete all three when I have an idea. I log in to LinkedIn, then type ‘Caroline Marcus’ into the search bar. There are a few dozen results, so I filter to Canada—and suddenly, there she is.
Caroline Churchwell, now Caroline Marcus. Alive and well. I click on her profile and open a DM.
My name is Brie MacKenzie, and I’ve been living with Grace and Bradley at Pine Ridge. Can we talk?
