Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve got my laptop open to DonorConnect, a notebook open to a fresh page, and Daphne’s poetry beside me on the bed. Everything’s worthy of investigation—every message I’ve received, every scrap of research I’ve done, since my life intersected with Morgan’s. I’m fresh off six hours of sleep, which my body and Mom demanded almost as soon as I got home, and now, I’m ready to review these past few weeks with clear, unbiased eyes.
At my parents’ request, I’m back in my childhood room. I don’t mind it; Bumper’s snoring at the foot of the bed, taking over as my new nurse, and earlier, I was barely able to gather my stuff in my apartment without having a panic attack, without seeing a figure in dark clothes in my peripheral vision. Mom had done her best with the floor, but there was a rusty shadow on the tile that she said she’ll need stronger products to remove. It made me wonder about Morgan’s floors, all that beautiful hardwood—if even now, his blood is cemented in the seams between boards, keeping the secret of whoever sent it there.
Bumper rolls onto his side, a comforting weight on my feet that pulls me back to my surroundings, and I focus on the white walls to stop seeing so much red. But the longer I stare at the paint, clean as my new bandage, the more I realize there are things that haunt me here, too. The pillow I’m leaning against is the same one I cried into when Noah, my high school boyfriend, broke up with me two days before prom to take someone else as his date. The candle on the nightstand is the only gift Jared from college ever gave me—a last-minute purchase at CVS after he forgot my birthday. The closet stores the dress I wore to my sister’s wedding, the night I hoped Gabe would whisper in my ear while dancing, tell me I looked beautiful, but instead he left after cocktails because “weddings aren’t my thing.”
Each of those men had claimed they loved me. They muttered it in the back seats of cars. Moaned it during sex. Tossed it over their shoulder on their way out the door. But now, years later, Nina’s in my head, making me wonder—even as I consider the flaw in her logic. Because the more I think of Brad’s “disrespect,” his “booty call” text— I miss your face —the more I remember how happy it made me. And wouldn’t disrespect feel horrible instead, the way it did when I was dumped before prom, pity-gifted a candle, abandoned at my sister’s wedding?
Then again, the happiness from that text was temporary, drained out of me as soon as Brad went radio silent, and now I’m remembering the hours before he sent it.
It had been a week since I’d last tried to reach him, and as I took myself for a crisp November walk, trying to feel something other than sad, I was struck by the sunset spread out above me—a perfect swirl of pinks and purples. It stopped my breath for a second. It showed me something vital, that all the beauty in my life hadn’t ended with my relationship, and I felt such a profound rush of hope that I snapped a photo of that sky and made it my profile picture on Instagram, replacing the one of me and Brad. But it’s like he sensed my moment of peace—or just noticed I’d swapped out his photo—because it was only hours later that he sent that text, and it would be months before I felt anything like serenity again.
I can’t imagine doing that to someone I care about—baiting them with affection just to let them dangle indefinitely on that hook. So maybe Nina’s right. Maybe I’ve been wrong about Brad. About all the men before him. I know the sound of love on somebody’s lips—even in our final nights together, Brad mumbled love you in the dark—but maybe that’s not the same as seeing that love. Maybe, after all this time, I don’t know what it looks like at all.
“Stop,” I scold myself, startling Bumper. I lean forward to stroke his head, then pull my computer onto my lap. I’m not supposed to be investigating my own past. Not my distant one, anyway. I’m supposed to be looking for someone I missed, someone with a reason to hurt Morgan—and by extension, Edith and me.
I start with DonorConnect, searching Morgan’s messages for people in his life besides Daphne and Blair. But I strike out in the first few, and in the fourth, there’s only a vague, passing mention of students he once had.
It’s around then that he calls Daphne unhinged . She gave so much of her mind to her students , he hypothesizes, that it’s no wonder it ultimately fractured . He says he encouraged her to see a doctor after she became, in his perspective, disproportionately upset he wouldn’t share his drafts with her, and his words grate on me now. Daphne was only reacting to Morgan’s pattern of using her past as plot, terrified it might happen again—especially once Blair told her he was writing a sequel to Someone at the Door . So her mind wasn’t broken; it was battling for control. Control of her own narrative. Control of the emotional chaos he’d caused.
And yet, only two paragraphs later, he claims he loved her. But over and over he’d capitalized on her pain, then downplayed what he’d done. I remember his justification from one of Daphne’s poems: There’s no copyright on trauma , a sentence that’s both an admission of guilt and a dismissal of the charge.
How can that be love? If Nina were here, I think she’d call it something else.
I’m about to give up on the messages, but the thought of Nina makes me look again. She said I miss what’s right in front of me—and she’s right; I haven’t been careful enough while reading this last one, too caught up in finally seeing Morgan clearly that I forgot to check for anyone else.
On my second read, it pops to the foreground: the reference to Piper. Well, to Daphne’s “new friend,” whom Morgan believed was responsible for some of Daphne’s agitation at the end, but I’ve known from the start that it’s Piper. Piper with her distrustful face and disdain for popular authors.
But also—I straighten against the headboard—Piper who knows Edith. Knows me.
Piper who believes Morgan killed her friend.
If my heart weren’t on a delay, it would be picking up speed. Instead, there’s a steady calm inside me as another connection clicks into place.
Piper was there, a couple days ago, on the sidewalk at Sweet Bean. She saw that I “spoke to the police,” just like was referenced in the note left under Edith’s door.
I grab my phone, unsure what I’m intending to do with it. Call Jackson? Tell him to look into Piper? It’s too soon for that; I have no proof—and he already thinks he has some against Edith.
The moment of indecision gives my epiphany a chance to falter. Because if Piper wanted revenge against Morgan, why would she wait a year after Daphne’s death to get it? And why would she set up Edith to take the fall? The two of them are friends and—
“Stop,” I say again, because that last thought was courtesy of my Rosie-colored glasses, making me assume Piper wouldn’t hurt someone close to her. But I’ve spoken to the woman only twice; I don’t actually know her at all.
I reach for Daphne’s books, leafing through them for any reference to Piper, a friend, anything, before remembering that the collections predated Daphne’s relationship with her. The only poem I’ve read that might have overlapped with their friendship is the one on the postcard—Daphne’s last, according to the bookstore owner.
I pull it out and read it again, just to be sure I haven’t missed anything. But it’s the same story I already know about Morgan: You’ve robbed me again and again. Siphoned my love. My likeness. You won’t stop until there’s nothing left. Still, I stare at the lines. Siphoned my likeness . It almost sounds like what I could have said about Other Rosie.
No, not “Other Rosie” anymore. Edith—who’s probably still being grilled at the station.
I push aside the books, determined to keep researching Piper. I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way. Through social media.
I start with Instagram. A few Piper Bells come up, but from their profile pictures alone, it’s easy to rule them out as the one I know. I grunt as I clear the search bar—and that’s when I see Blair’s name instead, at the top of my recent results.
I hesitate for only a second before deciding my next move.
If Morgan referenced Piper to me, a person he barely knew, he might have spoken with Blair about her more at length.
I send her a message.
Hey, I hope you’re doing okay. A lot has happened since we spoke the other night. Someone’s been arrested for Morgan’s murder—but I’m positive they didn’t do it and I’m still trying to figure out who actually did. Did Morgan ever talk to you about a woman named Piper Bell? She was one of Daphne’s friends.
Tapping out of the chat window, I’m returned to Blair’s profile, where Morgan’s face fills half the frame of a new post. She’s added another set of pictures, and I can’t help myself. The desire to look is a hard habit to break, even as the sight of him—Daphne’s smiling swindler, blue-eyed betrayer —leaves me a little nauseous.
The first photo is recent, given their hairstyles and Morgan’s glasses, but as I keep swiping through them, I watch the pair age backward, as if Blair’s trying to move Morgan further and further from the year of his death. Their hair gets shorter or longer; their skin gets smoother—but the evidence of their closeness never changes. In the final photo, they sit on their college green, a pillared library hulking behind them, and they tilt toward each other, laughing in a way that’s reminiscent of pictures of me and Nina. Not for the first time, I imagine the immensity of Blair’s loss. The love of a best friend is purer and steadier than any romance I’ve ever had, and I wonder now if I, too, have lost that, if things will ever be the same between me and Nina now that I know there’s a percentage of her that thinks I’m capable of murder.
A chime on my phone cuts through the thought—Blair’s responded.
Wait what?? PIPER BELL was arrested for Morgan’s murder?? Where did you hear that? It’s not in the news and the cops won’t give me updates!
No, sorry, it was someone else who was arrested. A friend of mine.
I TOLD YOU
Blair’s reply calls back to our first conversation, when she cast suspicion on Nina as the only person who knew my connection to Morgan.
It’s not worth it to correct her, to waste time explaining Edith’s part in all this.
My friend is innocent. You have to trust me. Someone else did this, and right now I’m trying to find info on Piper. Morgan told you about her?
Blair’s all-caps use of her name certainly seems to suggest so.
A couple minutes pass without a response, and I see her staring at her phone, mulling over whether to “trust me” when I’m basically a stranger to her. Finally, she answers.
No. I had no idea Morgan OR Daphne knew her. Maybe we’re talking about different Piper Bells?
Without a picture to pull up, I offer the only details I have.
She works at the Burnham Library. Curly blond hair.
Jesus, YES. She moved to a rental down the street from me like six months ago. I’ve gone to her house a few times for drinks. You think SHE’S the one who killed Morgan?
For a few moments, I’m unable to respond, too stunned by the strangeness of it: Piper moving so close to Blair, spending time with the friend of the man she believes killed hers. It could just be a coincidence—Piper might not even be aware of Blair’s connection to Morgan—but there’s something prickling at me, telling me to treat this like a lead.
What’s Piper’s address?
Why? Are you going to go talk to her?
Actually, I’m wondering if Blair’s neighborhood is close to Morgan’s—because that could maybe explain it. If Piper wanted revenge against him, then maybe she rented a place nearby, where it would be easier to watch his every move.
Without waiting for my answer, Blair sends another message.
Because if you’re going to confront her, then come get me first so we can go together. Morgan is MY best friend and I’m tired of being in the dark.
I hesitate, considering the request. It’s not exactly smart to knock on Piper’s door, question her in her own house, and put her on the defense—especially when I’m already worried she might have attacked me—but with Blair as backup, Blair who told me she’d “never stop fighting” for Morgan…
Okay. Send me your address and we’ll talk to her.