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“What about the locks on the outside of the doors?”

“That’s another thing she did. I came home one day, and a handyman was here doing it. I asked her why, and she said because she wanted to lock up the voices.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Anyway, we lived here together for months until our arguments started becoming physical.”

“Physical?”

“Yes. She came at me with a knife once; I pushed her. It wasn’t good. It became apparent that Valerie needed psychiatric intervention and away from me. So, I set her up with proper home care, security, an on-call medical team, and moved her to her favorite beach house that we own. And that’s where she lived for years.”

“Until Carlos took her.”

“Right.”

“He said she killed herself. Do you believe he’s innocent in her death?”

“I do. As much as I hate the guy, I don’t think he’s a killer. And she’d tried to commit suicide countless times, so ...”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need for you to be.”

“No, I mean ... I’m sorry, but I don’t fully believe you, and you should know that.”

Astor frowns. “What?”

“I think you did love your wife, deeply. Hell, she’s all around you, Astor. You keep her sister around you at all times, which is a little piece of her. Her pictures are everywhere—and you haven’t bothered to remove them. You light a candle for her every day. I saw you crying over the memorial you set up for her outside, next to your daughter’s. So, yeah, I think you still love her. I think you still might be in love with her. And I think her presence is still very much in this house.”

Fifty

Dear Butterfly,

I can’t hide it anymore.

Your absence has spread through my body like a virus. It’s turned me into someone I hate.

I can’t hide my depression. My grief. My sheer disdain for living in a world without you in it.

I can’t hide it from her anymore.

She knows.

Astor

Fifty-One

Sabine

I walked out on Astor after accusing him of still being in love with his wife.

He didn’t chase me. Instead, he yelled through the house for Cillian, demanding that he keep an eye on me for the next few hours. Then Astor stalked outside and disappeared on a four-wheeler, alone.

Now, I’m sitting on the patio wrapped in a blanket with a glass of wine in my hand and my feet propped up on the railing, watching his headlights as he scans the perimeter of the property. It’s a cold, dark night. Cillian lingers in the shadows of the kitchen behind me, out of earshot but close enough to make sure someone doesn’t sneak up and snip another piece of my hair—like someone did to Astor’s daughter the day she died.

I don’t know what to think of it all. To be honest, I’m a very exhausting combination of confusion, frustration, and head-over-heels in love.

“You’re up late.”

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