But then, she was alone when she died, and as far as I can tell, she was miserable. Why is she my role model?
“Life can be different. Lifehasto be different.”
“Then yes,” I say, kissing him softly. “Let’s give this a shot.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The following week feels like a honeymoon. Bradley goes to the college to teach, but is never away for more than four hours. We spend a criminal amount of time in bed, fooling around and planning the future.
During the afternoons, we hike the local trails. Though neither of us mentions it, we avoid going anywhere near the bridge where Grace died.
Every evening, he cooks extravagant meals for me using fresh ingredients from the local farmer’s market. I wear a different dress from Grace’s collection each time, and use her perfume and makeup. I wait upstairs until he calls for me, then I make a grand entrance while he wolf-whistles and claps. At Bradley’s insistence, I wear my ring, always. It’s not an engagement ring, but he’s acting like it is.
Afterwards, he comes for me, hungry. He still has the appetites of a teenage boy. Though I often think about the sword dangling above our heads, I keep this from Bradley, who is in a permanently good mood.
On Friday, Bradley goes to the city for the morning, and I feel unusually restless. It’s been a long time since I had absolutely nothing to do, and it’s beginning to wear on me, so I decide toclean the house as a surprise. While I vacuum and mop, I listen to a podcast about Keats to surprise Bradley with how much I know.
By the time I’ve finished the bedrooms upstairs, it’s nearly noon. I take a shower and change into a short black dress. Even though I’ve spent the morning on chores, I feel glamorously unemployed. As I walk slowly through the bedrooms, the realization is like a warm bath. While we’re together, this is mine.
It’s all mine.
I pause in front of the small door leading to the attic.
Even this.
I open the door and walk up the dark stairs, feeling strangely terrified. A floorboard creaks. I freeze on the stairs and hold my breath. Was that the house, or is someone up there? Is her ghost waiting for me? I wait a full minute, then take another step. There’s another creak.
“Hello?”
As soon as I hear my voice, I realize that I’m being an idiot. How could there be anyone up there? I take the remainder of the steps as fast as possible, and I’m soon peering up into her study. It’s empty—no madwoman in the attic, no resurrected Grace plotting revenge. Not even a ghost.
There’s a scuffle in the corner of the room, and I see Gabriel leap from the floor to the half-open window. I try to lure him back, but he trots off across the roof.
The light coming through the windows is muted, and I wonder what it was like for Grace to spend so much time in this dark room. She spent years alone up here, battling her mind, trying to force something new into the world. It never came. Is that a tragedy? Are we supposed to mourn when someone does something great and fails to repeat it? Or is that just life?
Either way, I pity her.
I walk up to her desk, which is much tidier than the last time I was here. I open the drawers, and they’ve been tidied, too. Even the papers on the floor are in neat piles. For a second, I wonder if she was spring cleaning before she died, but then I realize the obvious truth. Bradley has gone through it all already, looking for anything that might incriminate him.
Him, or us.
I go to the other side of the room and sit in Grace’s antique armchair. I spot the corner of a notebook, tucked down the side of the cushion like a remote control. I pluck it out and see Grace’s familiar handwriting on the otherwise blank cover.
Names.
I open the first page and see that the title is accurate. It is literally filled with names.
Sarah Fulman. 18. 5.9. Blonde. Met in class. 2 weeks.
Alice Sherman. 21. 5.4. Redhead. Waitress. 1 night.
Georgia Gestro. 31. 5.10. Blonde. Graduate student. 8 weeks, intermittent.
So it goes, for page after page.
Lisa Chung. 23. 5.8. Black. Student. 3 months and counting.
Tina? 19. 6.1. Brunette. 2 weeks.
