Page 32 of Bitter House

Snap out of it, Bridget.

Vera didn’t have secrets. She was a sad, lonely old woman who had given up on everything and everyone. Who pushed people away so she wouldn’t get hurt again. Who closed herself off to the world. That’s it.

This is clearly an attempt to make me question everything, make me scared, make me leave.

I can’t catch my breath. Tears prick my eyes as I try to reason with myself, try to calm myself down. It’s okay. You’re okay.

They’re lying.

They have to be lying.

She loved Mom. I watched her cry at the funeral. I saw with my own eyes the way she buckled in on herself, the way Edna had to hold her up and how Uncle Marcus had helped carry her away from the cemetery. No one could fake that. No one could make their eyes that empty.

But…if anyone could, it would be Vera. It’s like I said last night, if Vera wanted to do something, she’d find a way.

I’m still out of it, my chest constricting with fear and confusion, when I notice the man walking toward me. It takes several seconds for my brain to begin working again and piece together what’s happening.

The brown socks.

Dark blue jeans.

Green shirt.

Dark eyes.

Dark hair.

He’s staring at me, down on his knees so we’re eye level. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. I’m underwater. The paper in my hands is gone, and I see him staring down at it. My knees are warm, and I feel him take hold of me, feel myself being lifted from under my arms. When I look down, there’s a smear of blood on the wooden porch. My knee must’ve been sliced open when I landed.

Weirdly, I can’t even feel it.

“Bridget!” His shout brings me back to reality, and I get the feeling it’s not the first time he’s screamed at me.

I blink, tears cascading down my cheeks, and open my mouth. He’s holding my face in both hands and somehow, we’re in the kitchen. I’m sitting on the edge of the table, and he’s in front of me, pleading with me.

“It can’t be true…” I whisper. A hand goes to my chest, clutching my heart as I try to focus.

He’s bending down in front of me now, pulling up the leg of my pajama pants. “You’re bleeding,” he says softly, standing back up to meet my eyes again. “I’m going to get something to clean you up. I’ll be right back, okay?”

I’m nearly positive I’ve nodded, but he stands there anyway, watching me closely. “Okay?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

With that, he disappears from the room but returns in what feels like mere seconds. Or hours. I can’t make my heart—my eyes, my head—focus, my thoughts swirling with the revelations, and the entire room seems to be spinning.

It hurts.

It all just hurts.

I’m so sick of the way it hurts.

He bends down again, rubbing my knee with a wet piece of gauze. It stings slightly, but I can hardly feel it. Every part of my body is numb except for the inside, which hurts enough for all of it.

He’s pressing a bandage on my knee when my eyes finally find their focus. When he stands, he tucks my hair behind my ears on either side. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for the answers to a quiz he’s about to take. “Are you okay?”

“How could I be?” I choke out. It’s the only thing I can manage to say.

His face cracks, wrinkles forming, and he leans his head to the side. “B, you know it isn’t true. Vera would’ve never hurt your mom. She loved her. No matter your opinions of her, you have to believe—you have to know—she loved her. Besides, the accident was just that: an accident. You were in the car. You know that no one caused it. Vera couldn’t have done it. It’s impossible.”

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