Cross My Heart

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

I wake the next morning to a hot, fizzy feeling in my stomach, like I’ve swallowed a sparkler. I reach for my phone and, for a second, there’s a part of me that thinks I’ll see a text from Morgan—even though he doesn’t have my number. Still, when I got home last night, filled with a giddiness that bordered on intoxication, I had to stop myself from immediately messaging him through DonorConnect, had to remind myself I’m trying to be a different kind of Rosie. One with restraint . One who’s less available to men, and therefore more alluring.

Instead, I funneled my energy into the list in my phone, adding each new detail I’d acquired about Morgan at Sweet Bean, sifting through every single minute of the memory for another treasure. Another gesture. Another specific thing he’d said. That way, I could keep that day forever. Make him a little more mine.

Now, I sink back into the image of us: smiling, gazes locked, time growing slippery as his words drift over me like music, as I fidget with a napkin, itching to reach for his hand.

I open Morgan’s Instagram. No new posts, but that’s okay. I’ll revisit the selfie in his yard where, in the background, a deer grazes, Morgan’s eyes wide with wonder. Or the selfie at his desk, his face tired but satisfied, a document of blurry words on the laptop behind him. There’s a gap of a few weeks, right after his wife died, when he did not post, aside from a tribute to Daphne. But scrolling backward through time, I resurrect her: Daphne in overalls, paint roller in hand; Daphne with a stack of books; Daphne sipping wine.

His photos of her were always in black and white. And there aren’t many. Over their seven years together, there’s little more than a dozen. Even their wedding photos are colorless, making Daphne’s long, glossy hair appear pure black in contrast to her white dress.

It’s a flattering look. It makes me wonder if I should ditch the pink, dye my hair dark, alter my style to one I know Morgan likes. I even twist to see myself in the mirror, hold the sleeve of my black sweatshirt against my cheek to test out the color. It’s… not terrible. Then again: I don’t love the dark like I do the pink, which is pretty and romantic enough to soften the strange new landscape of my face. And more important, pink is the color I had during my first real-life encounter with Morgan, which feels like reason enough to keep it for a while.

I scroll deeper, faster, on his Instagram until the years erase Daphne—because there’s something so private, almost forbidden about his pictures of her. The scarcity of them, their shadowy grays. As if Morgan wanted Daphne all to himself. As if everything about her was secret and sacred, even the color of her eyes.

Or maybe I’m projecting. Maybe her photos only seem illicit because, in some ways, I feel like I’m betraying her. Daphne saved my life, and in return, I lie here hoping for messages from her husband, all the while knowing—up close and personal—the color of his eyes.

I scroll past the feeling, find Morgan in 2016, a year before he started dating her. Here he is, sharing a beer with Blair, whose hair is blunt and blond, her face free of any makeup, so different from the mature, thick-lashed woman I saw last night. For a second, I stop seeing the older photo, imagine instead one with Morgan and Blair and me, his best friend having become one of mine, her dark hair mingling with my pink as we press our faces close for the camera. There’s a hint of mischief in Morgan’s smile, and afterward, he teases us both: I think you guys love each other more than you love me.

The thought of his voice has me instantly craving more. I open YouTube, search for interviews with Morgan, ready to rewatch ones I know by heart. I filter the results by date—then jerk upright when I find a new video, uploaded last week.

It’s a virtual bookstore event, a conversation between Morgan and another author, Sally Andrews. As his voice rumbles out of my phone, I melt back against my pillows, but when Sally speaks, I scroll through the comments, interest already waning.

@SarahCain 3 days ago

This book sounds amazing!! Can’t wait to read.

@oliviawright9 3 days ago

Love these two!

@9ts612ithdibijcpi 2 days ago

Anyone else think Morgan Thorne straight-up murdered his wife?

I almost drop the phone. I gawk at the comment, then the poster’s handle—a set of random numbers and letters that looks strikingly similar to the one from Instagram last week—before scrambling to read the replies.

@samanthamains 1 day ago

THANK YOU for saying this, my friends all think I’m crazy!!

@ReginaTate 1 day ago

Wait, WHY do you guys think he murdered her???

@samanthamains 1 day ago

He didn’t even have an alibi. He was HOME when it happened. Also, the victims in his books are ALWAYS women.

@jessesomers 12 hours ago

Omg I’ve been WAITING for someone to say this. It would not surprise me if he killed her. There’s SO much misogyny in his books. He clearly thinks women are dumb as shit. His protagonists are always diving headfirst into danger even when a million red flags are waving.

@MichelleCloud 10 hours ago

I meannnnnn this is straight from the acknowledgments page in Chaos for the Fly: “I’m grateful to Detective Connor Dolson for fielding my myriad of after-hours questions about police procedure; thank you for helping me make a murder look like an accident. On the page, of course.”

@jessesomers 10 hours ago

omgomgomgomgomgomg

My head swims. I rub my right temple, then review it all again. It’s just gossip, of course. Speculation from people who have listened to too many true crime podcasts. They’re twisting Morgan’s words, trying to create a more lurid story, and it’s left a slushy feeling in my stomach. Morgan doesn’t deserve this.

I exit YouTube, pull up Morgan’s house on Zillow instead. It always comforts me, studying the pictures from before he bought it in 2019. I love to admire the wainscoting, the recessed lights, the built-in bench seat in the kitchen, and I wonder how the 2,300-square-foot space might have transformed since then. I know he’s already filled and decorated it with the last woman he loved, but now, I’m picturing how we’d make it ours. The photos we’d hang in the living room, black-and-white portraits of us. The space he’d make on shelves so my books could sit beside his. The reading chair we’d pick out together. The blanket I could learn to crochet.

I pull up the picture of his kitchen, focus on the French doors that open to a backyard patio. At the time the photo was taken, the glass wasn’t covered by shades or blinds—just big, blank panes that blurred the line between inside and out. Maybe Morgan and Daphne changed that. Or maybe they liked the clean, curtainless look. Either way, I’d need drapery of some kind; otherwise, just about anyone could walk the stone path to the back and see right inside.

As I’m zooming in on the doors, thumb and finger bracketing one of their handles, my phone rings. I glance at the time—8:03—before answering: “Is this a wake-up call?”

After exhausting nights at the hospital, Nina likes to talk on the drive home.

“You know it. Better than coffee. But also: we never finished our conversation.”

I sit up, fluffing my pillows against the headboard. “Which one?”

“You know which one.”

I stall with a beat of silence.

“Sweet Bean,” Nina presses. “Morgan Thorne. What happened with that?”

“Nothing,” I say, even as Morgan’s laugh reverberates inside me, rhythmic as a heartbeat.

“Uh-huh.” Her response is flat with doubt. “So, you didn’t, like, deliberately crash into him? Spill a drink on his stuff just so you could talk to him?”

I shift beneath my blankets. It’s scary how well she knows my mind. I’m glad, at least, I can answer her honestly: “I did not spill a drink on his stuff.”

In her pause, I hear a gust of static—wind or a sigh. “That is not the full denial I was hoping for.”

“I went back to work,” I tell her, keeping my voice sincere. “I have no idea what happened with Morgan after that. I promise.”

Again, she hesitates, but finally relents. “Okay. Good. It’s just— You’ve been so fixated on him, and it was starting to feel a little like last time, so I—”

“This is nothing like that,” I say, sharp and sure.

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry. But listen: I asked around the hospital, talked to one of the nurses who actually interacted with Morgan after Daphne was brought in, and she said—”

“Wait, what? Why were you ‘asking around’?”

“Because I was worried you were still full steam ahead on this guy! Especially once you went radio silent yesterday. So I wanted some info on him.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. This is so Nina that I’m surprised I didn’t see it coming. She may think I “go a step too far” when it comes to love, but she goes a step too far with friendships, inserting herself into situations that don’t require her help. A few years ago, after Tyler broke up with me, she snuck into my phone and erased his number so I couldn’t reach out to him. Later, I learned she texted him herself, too. Told him if he ever contacted me again, she’d Tonya Harding his kneecaps .

“Either way,” she continues, “my co-worker said there was something weird about Morgan that night. Like, he was acting really strange.”

“Well, yeah. He’d just found his wife half dead in the bathroom.”

“No, like—he had his laptop with him, in the waiting room, which is weird enough. Who brings their laptop in an ambulance? But he was typing like crazy. The nurse saw a document open on his screen, and… she thinks he was writing . While waiting to hear if his wife had died .”

“That doesn’t—” I curl my toes, fighting a sudden, unwarranted chill. “I’m sure he was scared out of his mind, and writing is just how he copes.”

“I knew you’d say that. But I’ve seen tons of people at the ER who are scared out of their minds, and you know what they do? They cry. Or pace. Or call family, friends. They don’t drop off their bleeding wife and then write their novel .”

I open my mouth to protest, but Nina barrels ahead.

“So I don’t trust this guy. But fine, if that doesn’t sway you, I’ll find something that does. Because I know you’re still tempted to talk to him. I know you’re, like, imagining your future together. But, Rosie, you can’t pursue someone you’ve been obsessing over. We’ve seen how this ends: it isn’t healthy for you.”

I fidget with the hem of my sheets. I don’t want to keep things from Nina. Don’t want to see and speak to Morgan only in secret. He could be in my life for a while—forever, if I’m lucky—which means he’ll be in Nina’s, too. And I don’t want her on permanent alert when the four of us are together: me and Morgan, Nina and Alex. I don’t want cookouts and game nights to be sullied by Nina’s suspicions. Not only of Morgan, but of me, too. Of what I might be missing. What I might have convinced myself to overlook.

Nina thinks my track record sucks. When one of my exes, Gabe, got so drunk at a Fourth of July party that he lit a Roman candle and, cackling, aimed it at my face, its exploding shell grazing my ear, Nina applauded me for having “enough sense” to leave him at the party. But she couldn’t believe that when he called the next day, admitting he’d been an idiot, I rationalized it—he’d been wasted, joking; he hadn’t actually intended to hurt me.

Then there was Tyler. When I woke one morning to a sharp, persistent pain in my side—a kidney infection, I’d later learn—I called him for a ride to the doctor. His refusal hissed through the phone: I’ve got my own shit to deal with, Rosie. His “shit,” as it turned out, was putting new rims on his tires, but when he finally texted, hours later, to check on me, Nina got annoyed at me for responding.

God, Rosie , she said once, the things you let men do to you . But it’s just because I want—no, need—what Nina already has. Without it, my future terrifies me: back in another hospital room, alone this time, my parents too old to care for me, if they’re even still around; my best friend and sister too busy with families of their own. And it’s not only that. Ever since Nina’s wedding day, there’s been something asymmetrical about our friendship. For our whole lives, from kindergarten on, it had been the two of us, loving each other first and best. But when she married Alex, she updated her emergency contact forms, checked with him whenever I suggested a night out, in case they already had plans. And as much as Nina and Alex have tried to make me never feel like a third wheel, it’s always there in my mind, that my presence is a kickstand, keeping them from riding as fast and far as they want.

That’s why I want her to love who I love. I want that sense of symmetry back. Four instead of three. So when it comes to the person I choose as my partner, I need my best friend to be on board.

“For the hundredth time,” I tell Nina now, “you don’t have to worry and you don’t have to dig up dirt on Morgan. I’m not obsessing over him.”

As soon as we end our call, my fingers act on reflex, pulling up his Instagram again. I return to the photos of Daphne, hold the phone closer to my face, as if I’ll hear her whispering secrets through the screen: This is how you keep him . But the pictures are as muted and monochromatic as ever, like shots from a silent film. I note the clothing she favors—silky V-necks that would never work on me, exposing too much of my scar—and the way she does her makeup: cat-eye liner I’ve struggled to perfect in the past.

I close the app, a little defeated, and the time on my phone alerts me that I have to take my meds. I pad to the kitchen, pull the orange juice from the fridge, my eyes catching on a wedding invitation I’ve stuck to the door, the RSVP card still blank. It’s from my college roommate, and beneath the line where I’d specify my plus-one, there’s a typed request from the bride and groom: “Significant others only, please.” I turn my back to it, smothering a fresh sting, and drop a syringeful of cyclosporine into a glass of juice. Then I swallow the mixture as fast as I can, cringing at the bitter, sulfurous taste that, for now, keeps me alive.

Leaning against the counter, I brace myself for the side effects—nausea, shaking, a dull throb in my head—and distract myself with recent texts, picturing some future good-morning message from Morgan, something that would soothe my heart as it ticks the time away. But then I see Edith’s name, and I’m soothed in a different way. Unlike Nina, she’s actually sympathetic toward Morgan, not suspicious. Isn’t it so sad about his wife? she asked when we met—just before mentioning that someone she knows was close with Daphne.

I open our text thread and type a new message.

Hey! Didn’t you say you have a co-worker who was friends with Daphne Thorne?

She responds a minute later.

Yeah! Why?

This is so dumb, but I’ve seen a bunch of people speculating online that Morgan like KILLED his wife haha. (Not laughing because murder is funny, laughing because the comments are ridiculous) But it did make me wonder what your co-worker thought of him, assuming she knew him through Daphne.

I’m expecting an immediate, emphatic answer: Omg that’s insane, my co-worker LOVES him. Instead, Edith responds with three surprised-face emojis before typing again.

Wowwwww I have not seen that. I think my co-worker said she doesn’t like him though.

Wait, really? Why not?

I’m not sure. Something about bad vibes? It was a while ago.

Well, that’s not much of a reason. But this vague answer presents a good opportunity.

Do you think you could connect me with her? So I could ask her myself?

Why, are you like… investigating him? lol

I hesitate only a second before crafting a lie with just enough truth.

A friend of mine has actually started talking to him after meeting him online. They’ve only seen each other once so far, so it’s definitely early, but if he’s got bad vibes… I don’t know. Makes me want to find out more haha.

I watch as Edith’s ellipsis appears. Oh , she says after a while, an answer so curt that I worry my request seems crazy. It’s not that I even care about Morgan’s supposedly “bad vibes.” Nina thinks yogurt has bad vibes; the phrase is so overused it’s meaningless. But I am curious what someone close to Daphne could tell me. Not just her impressions of Morgan, but insight about his wife, too. Details beyond her makeup and clothing that I can use to keep him interested.

Edith’s ellipsis blinks on and off again, and it’s another few minutes before her answer comes through.

Can you make it to the library at 9? I’m not working today but Piper is. She says she’s happy to chat.

I show up with a Danish.

I stopped at Sweet Bean on my way to the library, hoping that Morgan would be there again, that I’d be forced by fate to pick up where we left off yesterday. As I stood in line, scanning each table, I saw the scene so clearly: Morgan with another cappuccino, his eyes hooking on to mine, his mouth curling at the corners—a smile set to snare me.

Now, as I climb the steps to the library, I find a woman sitting on the top stair, huddled beside shopping bags. From the dirt on her cheek and the hole in her sleeve, it’s obvious she isn’t just resting here before heading home. Obvious, in fact, that she has no home at all.

I pause beside her, glancing at my Sweet Bean bag. I brought it as a thank-you to Edith’s co-worker—Piper, apparently—but now I hand it to the woman instead.

“Oh. Th-thank you,” she says. She peers into the bag, then inhales deeply, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. “Oh my.”

“They taste even better than they smell,” I tell her.

When I open the door and step inside, I inhale deeply myself, savoring the scent of books, feeling a buzz I only get in libraries and bookstores. I’ve always wanted a library of my own, a room in my house reserved for all the books that currently sit in stacks around my apartment. I wonder if Morgan has one. Wonder how soon it’ll be before I see for myself.

Piper’s waiting for me by the door, taller than she seemed in the picture Edith sent, but I recognize her honey-colored curls.

“Hi… Piper?” I reach out my hand. “I’m Rosie. Thanks for meeting with me.”

Her grip is limp with distraction. “Yeah, hi,” she says, eyes combing through my hair. I touch the tip of one pink wave, ready to preempt any comments about the color— I know, it’s like cotton candy —but Piper mutters something else: “Okay, now I get it.”

“Sorry? Get what?”

She glances over my shoulder to the steps outside. “Did I just see you feed Margaret?”

“Oh—that woman?” I look back through the glass in the doors, find her licking raspberry filling off her fingers. “Yeah— Sorry, I thought she was unhoused. Did I get that wrong?”

I blush at the thought that I might have offended Margaret—or just looked insane, handing a random stranger an even more random Danish.

“No, she is,” Piper says. “Just… people usually pretend she isn’t there.” Piper tilts her head, as if considering me anew, but her eyes are still tangled in my hair. “Edith did say you’re a good person. Come on, we can talk in one of the meeting rooms downstairs.”

When we reach the bottom floor, Piper leads me down a corridor before turning into a windowless room. She flicks on the overhead light, revealing worn gray carpet, a watermarked table, a handful of mismatched chairs.

“My shift starts at nine thirty. I came early to help a patron apply for jobs, so I’ve only got a little time to chat.” Piper slides into a seat, gesturing for me to join her. “But as soon as I got Edith’s text, I was like—” She cuts herself off as I sit across from her. Her eyes rove my face as if registering it for the first time. “Wait. Are you Rosie Lachlan ?”

I stiffen in surprise. “Yeah?”

“God, sorry. The hair kind of threw me so I didn’t notice upstairs. I’m Piper Bell.” She waits for recognition, and I wince with none to offer. “I was a couple years below you at school.”

“Oh!” I scrutinize her face. There might be something familiar about her, but I struggle to place her in my memories of Burnham High. “I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“It’s okay.” She waves off my embarrassment. “I’m freakishly good at names and faces. But how have you been? I’m friends with Nina Burke on Facebook and I remember her having a big post about you a while ago. Something… happened to you last year, right?”

My mind leaps to Brad—a tear-smudged phone, twelve unanswered calls, then thirteen, fourteen, the car keys in my hand, blood on his driveway; You’re crazy, Rosie, you’re fucking crazy! —before I realize Piper couldn’t know any of that.

“I had a heart transplant,” I say.

“Right, that’s it! Wow.” Her eyes drop to my chest, as if looking for the place they sawed me open. “Was it— Did you have, like—”

I cut her off, used to this question. “I had cardiomyopathy.”

She nods, curiosity lingering in her gaze, so I rattle off a condensed version of the story: at first, doctors thought my disease had been caused by a virus they found in my system, but the autopsy later showed I’d actually had a congenital heart defect, the virus only worsening a problem that was already there. What I don’t mention is how, when my symptoms first appeared in the weeks after Brad, my parents wrote it off as anxiety. Depression. The physical toll of my shredded mental health. You’re making yourself sick , Mom said. And I believed it. Because what is crazy if not a sickness?

“Basically,” I sum up, “I was born with a broken heart. I just didn’t know it until I was twenty-nine.”

“Wow, that’s so intense.” Piper reaches across the table, flattens her hand close to mine. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

My eyes drop to her ring finger—a reflex I’ve recently acquired. I check everyone’s these days, searching for solidarity. Hers is naked, and I wonder if she loses any sleep about that, if she dreams of gowns that haunt like ghosts.

Probably not. Because no matter how many single people I meet, I’m always alone with my specific fear, my pulse that feels like a timer. It’s a burden I’ll only be able to share if I find someone to love me. And even then, if I do manage to get married, that fear will only double, felt not just by me, but my husband, too. Intrusive as an asterisk in our vows. Till death do us part.*

*Which might be pretty soon.

It would be a terrible thing to put someone through. And of course I think of Morgan—how I’d be sentencing him to an unspeakable fate: losing a second wife, who has the same damn heart as his first.

But then I think of what we could have in the meantime: sun-soaked mornings with Sickle, Sweet Bean weekends, reruns of Friends . And even better than all that, what I’ve craved in every relationship, what seems so easy but is actually extravagant: the simple pleasure of sharing space—a bed, a couch, a home—blanketed by silence that doesn’t feel like an absence or a gap, but a presence and fullness all its own. With Morgan, I could read on one end of the couch while he writes on the other, and every so often, I’d glance over the top of my book to watch him work, wondering at how he conjures the words that spread chills across skin.

“Anyway,” Piper says, shattering the image. “Sorry to be so nosy—you didn’t come here to talk about that. Edith said you were asking about Morgan Thorne?”

As she says his name, her voice hardens. Her cheeks sink inward, like she’s sucking on something sour.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s not a big deal or anything, but my… friend started—well, they’ve been talking, and Edith said you got, like, bad vibes from him? So I just—”

Piper swats at the air, cutting me off. “Trust me.” She punctuates the sentence by pressing her finger onto the table. I watch her knuckle turn white, as if she’s holding the wood in place. “You need to get your friend away from Morgan,” she says. “Before it’s too late.”