Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
Proof of life, please.
Nina’s text forces me to pause my music. I’ve been reading in bed, listening to Taylor Swift, thinking of Morgan. Now I sit up, slide Plath’s Ariel off my lap, and smile for Nina’s picture. It takes more effort than I’d like; my meds have made me especially nauseated today, and I’ve taken the morning off to rest. It disturbs the brides, I’ve found, when I grin with gritted teeth.
Wait. Why is your dress like that?
At Nina’s response, I jerk my head to the closet—I forgot it was open behind me in the shot. And right in front: my wedding dress, free of its garment bag for the first time in eighteen months.
Just had a craving to see it
I pulled it out a couple hours ago, after Morgan’s latest message arrived on DonorConnect. My fingers shook on the bag’s zipper, but I wanted to honor the hope I felt inside me, to look at the dress with fresh, unswollen eyes and see if it still haunted me. Because maybe it’s not some specter of the past. Maybe it’s a premonition for the future. Even though I bought it for a wedding to someone who decided I was too much , that doesn’t mean I can’t ever use it.
If the dress really is a ghost, then maybe that just means it has unfinished business.
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
I set my phone aside, leaving Nina’s text unanswered. I can’t explain it to her—not without revealing how things have progressed with Morgan. With me .
When I ran my fingers down the dress this morning, the satin did not scrape me. The buttons didn’t feel like blades. I was surprised how much I still loved it, even if there was a painful edge to that love, a jagged breath caught in my throat. But that’s true of all love, isn’t it? There’s always some part of it that hurts.
Morgan’s message certainly made that case. Toward the end with Daphne, he felt like roadkill she would have driven past without care or compassion.
I had nearly identical thoughts after Brad. When he ignored my texts, my calls, when I stood on his doorstep and registered disgust in his eyes where there’d once been only desire, I was sure if he ever saw me stranded in a ditch somewhere, he would not stop to help. He’d pass that crazy woman on the street, without so much as a glance in the rearview.
But Morgan said, I don’t think you’re crazy —and that’s unclenched something long held tight inside me. He read the details of one of my ugliest nights, and he didn’t even flinch.
Still, I didn’t exactly tell him the whole story.
Didn’t mention my blood at Brad’s door.
I’d cut myself, earlier that night. I’d been fiddling with a glass in the kitchen, my phone pressed to my face, the ringing tone from Brad’s throbbing in my ear, when my hand slipped, shooting the glass to the floor. Except it wasn’t just any glass. It was the one Brad bought me after our first date, the logo for Pizza Depot now jigsaw pieces on the tile. And in my rush to salvage them, I sliced open my palm, the blood soaking through tissues already soaked with tears.
I drove to Brad’s house that way, bleeding, because I’d just lost this part of us, this stupid but significant pint glass, and I couldn’t waste another second wondering what else I was losing, why he stayed silent after proposing we do this again . When he answered the door, he gaped at my blood: the puddle in my palm, the drops at my feet. He saw my keys smeared with red, saw my car door open, heard the engine still running, like I’d catapulted from my seat to his steps. And even after he told me to leave, I stayed there, crouched and crying, bleeding on concrete.
So I couldn’t blame him, could I, for calling me crazy? For deeming me too much?
I was worried Morgan would deem me that, too, after reading my latest message. In all our prior interactions, I’ve held back, answering questions with only a few sentences each, but all that caution was a cork in me, adding new pressure to old pain—until two nights ago on DonorConnect, when I took advantage of the anonymity and finally let the story spill out. Afterward, I buried my face in my hands at how detailed I’d been, sharing even my first kiss with Brad. “That was way too much,” I hissed.
Not according to Morgan. And his response has reminded me there are other first kisses that will matter even more. I see mine with Morgan, his palms cupping my face, his lips as soft as moths, and heat rushes through me—until I remember he wants to see me in person. Not knowing, of course, that he already has.
I can’t risk him thinking I’m a stalker or that I figured out who he was and forced our proximity at Sweet Bean. It’s a steep slope from remarkable to crazy , but I know so well that it’s slippery, too—and I couldn’t bear for Morgan to take back assurances he’s already made. I don’t think you’re crazy. You are not too much.
I unfollow him on Instagram, remove myself from his eighty-two thousand fans. Just to be safe. Then I switch my account to private so that, even if he somehow stumbled upon it, all he’d see was the sunset in my profile picture.
Still, the stalker fear is not my only hesitation in revealing myself as the woman Morgan’s been messaging. As much as I’ve clung to his words all morning, I can’t ignore his haunting descriptions of Daphne’s behavior—and wonder what caused it.
Piper was right that there was something strained about Daphne and Morgan’s marriage. But that seems to be all she and Morgan agree on. In his message, Morgan paints himself as a baffled victim of Daphne’s moods. Not just verbal assaults, but acts of violence, too—books thrown, walls gouged—the latter only starting after Daphne met Piper. But in Piper’s version, Morgan controlled Daphne, tormented her, stirred up all that darkness inside her.
If only I could read Daphne’s version, in her own words, see how she wrote about the people in her life, get insight into why she lashed out at Morgan. Maybe I could use her poetry as a road map, memorize all the warning signs and danger zones so I can keep my own relationship with Morgan from veering off course.
According to her bio on Poets these rings are welded to our bones,” Morgan jokes, holding up his hand, where a platinum band catches the light. He tilts toward Daphne—“Can you weld metal to bone? What even is welding?”—before turning back to the camera. “My point is: even when we’re dead and buried, our skeletons will be wearing these rings.”
I straighten. Goose bumps stipple my skin.
“Spoken like a true thriller author!” Andrew says. “Seriously, what a sentence.”
What a sentence, indeed: dark, but strangely romantic, too. An ache pulses inside me, stronger than my nausea—because I’ve never had that, someone who actually means forever . Someone who wants me to belong to him even when I’m nothing but bones.
I pause the video, move the cursor to trace Morgan’s face. Seeing him in person is great, of course—but I love this, too: studying his features without the worry that I’m staring too much. As he smiles at the camera, stuck in this single frame, it feels like he’s staring right back.
When I hit Play again, Daphne leans forward, as if reminding me she’s there. “But Morgan’s still very secretive about his writing. I never see it until the advance copies come in, when it’s basically too late to make any changes. He even—”
“Yeah, like I said”—Morgan shrugs—“I’m superstitious. An idea, a story, it’s so fragile. I never believe it’ll actually survive until those galleys arrive and it finally looks like a book.”
“Makes sense,” Andrew says, but Daphne shifts on the couch, frowning.
Was this the root of her issues with Morgan? He said it stemmed from her fear that he’d outgrow his love for her in the face of success. But maybe it was the fear of being blindsided again, like she was by Someone at the Door . Still, would that really warrant the behavior Morgan described? Shouting at him. Throwing books past his head. I look at their walls, scanning for gouges, but the paint is as smooth as Morgan’s face while he waits for another question.
“Daphne, how about you?” Andrew asks. “Do you like to keep your work under wraps until it’s published, or do you have Morgan critique it during the process?”
“Oh, I told her from the very beginning not to trust me with that,” Morgan says. “I’m clueless when it comes to poetry.”
Daphne shakes her head. “He always says this. And yet, every single time we’re in the produce section at the grocery store, he busts out some random William Carlos Williams line.”
“Well, it’s not random,” Morgan says, “when you consider how much fruit appears in Williams’s work.”
“I know, but—”
“But no, she’s right—I read the greats. Williams. Keats. Hughes. Plath by extension. But I have no idea how to do what they did: distill a specific feeling down to a few stanzas. I always need a few hundred pages just to come close to what I’m trying to say. So no, I don’t usually see Daphne’s work until it’s already out in the world. I’d have nothing to offer her.”
“That’s so interesting,” Andrew says, “because as I prepared for this interview, I noticed a lot of similar images in both of your work. Morgan, your debut has the motif of the titular door, which comes to represent how breachable our sense of security is, and, Daphne, your poems include a lot of doorknobs, dead bolts, thresholds. Then there’s the intersecting themes in your second books: the oppressive weight of guilt and blame, alienation from family. I guess I always assumed those similarities sprang from being involved in each other’s work, but—maybe not?”
“Well, it’s funny,” Daphne starts, “because I always—”
“Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it?” Morgan says. “We’ve noticed that before but can’t really explain it. I guess it’s like…” He returns his hand to Daphne’s knee, squeezing it as he searches for the right words: “We spend so much time together that our minds have started to behave in the same ways.”
“The same violent ways,” Andrew emphasizes. “Of course, there are the murders and abductions in your books, Morgan, but, Daphne—even though your writing is beautiful, there’s a lot of violence in your word choice. ‘Branches knife the sky.’ ‘The silence suffocates .’ Is that a conscious choice for you?”
Daphne cocks her head, considering the question. “I don’t know if conscious is the right word. But it’s definitely a natural choice. I find that beauty and brutality often go hand in hand. To the point where—” She bites her lip before clearing her throat. “You know, I actually worry sometimes that—” She knots her fingers tighter in her lap. “I worry that everything beautiful, even love, eventually ends in bloodshed.”
Morgan jerks his head to look at her, and she pivots hers to appraise him, too. Their eyes remain locked together while Andrew fumbles for a response.
“Wow, that’s… heartbreaking, of course. But powerful. It sounds like the start of another poem.”
Daphne returns her gaze to the camera, her smile gracious and demure.
“Maybe I’ll write it,” she says.
Then she flinches, mouth popping open like something’s surprised her. Andrew doesn’t seem to notice; he’s peering at his notes. Morgan doesn’t react, either, but when Daphne looks at her husband again, her eyes are narrowed.
I must have missed something.
Tugging the laptop closer, I replay the last several seconds.
“… worry that everything beautiful, even love, eventually ends in bloodshed.”
I tune out Andrew’s response, watch Daphne and Morgan share a look, watch Daphne turn and smile and—
There. Movement in Morgan’s hand, the one resting on her knee. But it’s not relaxed anymore. It’s clenched around her kneecap—until a second later, when it’s back in his own lap.
It happens so fast. I go back to be sure. But the image repeats: his fingers stiffen, digging into her leg like a claw, and as soon as Daphne jolts, Morgan lets go.
My phone chimes, startling me. I pause the video, and in the instant before I check the notification, I’m sure it’s Morgan. He’s sensing, somehow, that I’m scrutinizing this moment. And when I look at the screen, I do see his name there—but it’s in a text from Edith.
Hey, so… I’ve been curious about those comments you said you saw about Morgan Thorne, so I’ve gone down a rabbit hole (is Rabbit Hole a breakup phase? Anything’s better than crying, right? lol) and I just found this.
I open the screenshots she’s attached. The first is a thread on Reddit. Someone’s asked for a book recommendation—“something that will freak me the fuck out”—and in the initial batch of replies, Morgan’s Chaos for the Fly is mentioned. The second screenshot appears, snapped from farther down the thread, where there’s a pile-on of theories and accusations that are quickly becoming familiar. One user writes, I mean yeah that book was good but… I’m pretty sure the author killed his wife?? Another giddily agrees: Right?!?! She “fell” at home while he was “writing.” Sure, Jan.
My eyes almost glaze over. It’s the same baseless claims I’ve seen on Instagram and YouTube. People love to pick the bones of a tragedy, ravenous for something rancid.
But the next comment snatches my attention again: THIS!!!! Supposedly they found no evidence of foul play, BUT my cousin is a cop in Morgan Thorne’s town and he said there was something weird about the scene. Like the wife supposedly slipped in the bathroom, only there wasn’t anything for her to slip ON. No bathmat, no puddle, nothing. And she wasn’t straight out of the shower or anything, she was fully clothed. Evidence or not, I’m willing to bet he pushed her.
I close the screenshot, but the comment lingers like an echo. Something weird about the scene . It reminds me of a detail Nina mentioned—the ER nurse’s perspective of the night Daphne died: There was something weird about Morgan.
I return to my laptop, where his flat, placid expression contradicts Daphne’s narrowed gaze, and for a few seconds, I’m filled with a sensation like arrhythmia—something out of sync.
Edith texts me another picture, this time a selfie. She’s wearing a gray sweatshirt, its hood pulled so tight around her head that only her eyes and nose peek through.
The hood is in lieu of a tinfoil hat. Am I crazy or is that “nothing to slip on” detail kind of creepy?
Sure, it’s a little creepy, but it’s nowhere close to conclusive—if it’s even true at all. It’s not like we’re hearing it from the cop himself; it’s secondhand, filtered through a supposed cousin, on Reddit of all places. And more important, I tell Edith in my reply—
If the cops really thought the scene was suspicious, they would have arrested him. Or there’d at least be, like,… articles saying he was a suspect. And I’ve never seen anything like that.
No, me either. Because believe me I LOOKED lol. Just trying to see if I need to burn my Morgan Thorne books. But okay, I’ll take off my faux tinfoil hat.
I mean, the FTH (faux tinfoil hat) looks GREAT on you.
You know, I didn’t want to brag, but I thought so too. SO much better than a wedding veil.
Edith adds two emojis—one laughing, one sobbing—and I send her a heart in return, promising to take her to dinner soon. I scroll back to her selfie, where her eyes are puffy from crying, and I remember it viscerally: the splotches on my own skin, the swollen eyelids, the scrape of tissues. It’s brutal, what she’s going through. And I never want to return to it, that feeling like my heart’s been clawed apart.
I look at Morgan, frozen on my screen as Daphne squints at him, the hand that gripped her knee now withdrawn. It’s true what I said to Edith: “nothing to slip on” is nothing like evidence. And neither is this strange moment between Morgan and Daphne.
When I resume the video, Andrew asks Daphne, “Are you working on another collection at the moment?”
The question appears to relax her. “Always,” she says, a smile sliding onto her face. “And actually, the poems I’ve been writing lately all circle the theme of—”
“Don’t say!” Morgan grins, tossing up a hand like a stop sign. “At this point it’s probably bad luck for me to hear your ideas before they’re published.”
Andrew laughs. “There’s that superstition again. Okay, let’s talk about writing routines instead. Do you ever write in the same space together? A shared office, perhaps?”
“Well, as a full-time writer, I keep a different schedule than Daphne, who’s a teacher,” Morgan says—and Daphne’s eyes narrow again, her mouth shrinking to a thread-thin line. As Morgan goes on to describe his specific routine, Daphne never breaks her gaze from the camera, but in her lap her hands clamp so tightly together that her knuckles shine white.