Page 44 of Bitter House

Inside, I place the camera package on the table so I don’t forget to install it soon, before the next letter has a chance to arrive. I want to set it up this morning, just in case we receive the last letter this afternoon, two in one day like we did yesterday. Unless they eventually reveal themself, we only have one more chance to catch the sender in the act. We’ll have to figure out where to place the camera so we can see the gate, rather than the front door now, and with the long driveway, that could be a challenge. Before I can do anything else, though, I have to find out what this current letter is talking about. What secret is lurking in the back of Vera’s dresser?

It feels weird to be searching for answers without Cole, but I don’t want to bother him. After the way we left things last night, the air is buzzing with awkwardness and tension.

Besides, I’m independent, and I can do this. If there’s one thing Vera taught me, it’s that I don’t need a man to be powerful. To be in control. To be safe.

Back in her room, I shove the letter into my back pocket and head for the closet. She has two dressers in here—a long one with two sets of three drawers, and a tall one with five drawers. The letter didn’t specify which one, but since it said top drawer and only one has a single top drawer, I go for the tall dresser first.

I pull open the drawer to find several silk bras and reach toward the back. My hand stops halfway, and I realize this drawer is much shallower than it should be. Upon closer inspection, I realize that—yes!—the drawer is half as deep as the dresser. I push on the panel gently, moving my fingers around the edges as I try to peer in the drawer, head tilted to the side and one eye closed.

When I press on the upper-left corner, the panel pushes in, then rebounds and jerks back toward me with a click as if it’s on a spring, similar to the hidden panel in the wall behind me. Carefully, I nudge it again, and as the panel drops down, I reach my hand farther back until my palm connects with something soft and cold. I know what it is instantly: a book.

I pull it out to confirm that I’m right, turning it over in my hand. The cover is red and nondescript. Simple. Genuine leather with intricate patterns.

I open to the first page, smoothing my fingers over her writing—the familiar look of the large loops and swirls of her letters.

This journal belongs to:

Vera Bitter

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BRIDGET

As mad as I am at her, the temptation to hear from Vera again is undeniable. The solace I find in seeing her handwriting disturbs me—I should not want to hear from her. She’s a murderer. She lied to me. She kicked me out.

But no matter how many times I repeat these things in my head, the truth is there, as real as the heartbeat in my chest: I want her to prove me wrong. And somehow, I know that she won’t. I know that she’s going to let me down once again. Just like I’ve always known whoever is writing me these letters knows the truth about everything.

Somewhere deep in my core, like a piece of fruit rotting, I’ve felt it. I’ve felt the way my entire world is getting ready to crumble. I’m on the precipice of it all falling apart.

I sink onto the carpeted floor of her closet, turning to the first page, and with a deep breath, I begin to read.

I was never sure about changing my last name after I was married. Isn’t that funny? In those days especially, it was unheard of for a woman to think of such things. But I was a Shuffle, had been all my life. My daddy was a Shuffle and his daddy and so on, and I guess in some strange way, it felt like giving up the last piece of myself if I chose to do it.

…if I’m being honest, I loved the weight the last name carried. Being a Bitter in this town, I might as well be a Rockefeller or a Kennedy.

…I can still picture it now, if I try. The way that smile made me feel could be studied. Books could be written about it. But…like all the best stories, it had to end. And, when it did, I was grateful I had the Bitter name. Because that’s exactly what I was: bitter.

…Reggie came along when I was still trying to find my place. I’ve always been a stubborn child. Momma and Daddy used to say I’ll be too stubborn to die one day, and I have no evidence to the contrary.

…she was scared. She was trying. But she was poor. Her options were limited.

…the first time I ever held my husband’s gun was the night I killed a man. And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

My heart stops as I read those words. The admission in Vera’s own hand. She was a killer. Worse…she killed Edna’s husband. Cole’s dad. There were so many other possibilities of how to deal with the threat he posed. So many other ways she could have handled it. She said it herself: she was powerful. She could’ve made him leave. She could’ve had him arrested. Hired security to keep them safe. She had so many other options than the one she chose.

Then my chest turns to ice. The man in the woods—the body—it might be Cole’s dad.

Oh god.

I feel sick. My stomach churns with the thought of it. The fingers, the bones he unearthed, could’ve been his own flesh and blood. How can I ever tell him?

Before I have my answer decided, I hear the bedroom door open farther. His light footsteps tap across the floor as he makes his way through the room, closing the space between us. I slam the book shut seconds before he appears.

When he does, his eyebrow quirks up. “Why are you on the floor?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

VERA BITTER

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