Chapter Twenty-Five
Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man…put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and—beware!
I text Bront?: “Need to talk. When’s a good time to call?”
“Very busy at work today,” she responds. “How about four your time?”
I reply with a thumbs-up.
Chet stays holed up inside for the afternoon, presumably talking with his lawyer. It’s Axel Rose’s day off, so I’m extra busy with the horses. As soon as four o’clock rolls around, I call Bront?. She picks up on the first ring.
“What’s up?”
I tell her everything—how Chet was evasive when I asked him about Birdy and Mason. How he kissed the bejeezus out of me. How I wound up in his bed last night, despite me being determined to have alone time.
“Then the storm hit, and we’re lying there in the dark. Something still felt off, and I was bracing for the speech. You know the one.”
“The ‘I’m too broken for you’ speech?”
“Exactly. Except, instead he asked me to move in. To stop being his employee and become his partner. Said we’ll run the ranch together.” I pause. “He used the word love.”
Bront? is quiet for a beat. “Jane, that’s great.”
“Yeah,” I say. “At the time, when he said all that, I was so happy. But . . .”
“But, what’s wrong?” Bront? asks.
I press my back against the fence post and look out at the split oak, its raw wound still pale against the bark.
“This morning I walked past his study, and he was on the phone with his lawyer. He sounded—cornered. Something about keeping Mason from suing him.” I watch Miss Adele pick her way around the fallen half of the tree.
“And then, I went for a walk and found that a lightning bolt had split the big oak out by the pasture completely in two.”
“Yikes.”
“Right? When I saw it, I just had this bone-deep sense that it was a portent of something bad.” I suck in a breath. “What do you think?”
There’s a pause.
“Okay, I love you,” Bront? says, which is always how she opens when she’s about to say something I won’t love. “And I need you to not get mad.”
“I won’t get mad.”
“You might.”
“Bront? . . .”
She exhales. “He’s keeping something from you. That’s just a fact. And the boss thing—I mean, is he going to stop paying you a salary and just . . . cover your expenses instead? Because you left Kentucky specifically to stop getting taken care of.”
Now, Miss Adele is sniffing the ruined tree, inspecting it as best as she knows how.
“Also,” Bront? continues, “there’s something going on with Birdy.
People on Instagram are asking questions.
Real questions.” She pauses. “Some of their theories are pretty out there, which is why I didn’t mention it before.
I don’t want you worrying about crackpot theories.
But after you told me about seeing a face in the barn window, I went back and reread some of the more rational-sounding posts.
You should look at them before moving in with this man. ”
Miss Adele lifts her head and looks at me. Our gazes lock.
“Send me the links,” I say.
Each post is more unsettling than the last. Fans have split into two camps: #Birdysfaking, she’s pretending to have cancer, and #freeBirdyBanks, she’s being held hostage, probably by Chet. A smaller group thinks both are true.
In hundreds of comment threads, sleuths pore over her social feed—backgrounds, timestamps, window reflections.
They note her “cancer journey” mirrors a known lymphoma blogger’s and argue her chemo selfies could be staged at a wellness spa, or that she might sneak into a hospital wing or purposefully get dehydrated in order to be admitted.
But why fake cancer if she’s wealthy and backed by a billionaire ex? That fuels the hostage theory: her “at-home” posts all show the same nondescript room, and the mountain-shaped shadows match those at Resilience Ranch. A forensic analyst even claims her speech is coded pleas for help.
To explain her actual hospital visits, the combo theory says Chet kidnapped her and is forcing her to fake cancer, staging both “home” and “hospital” scenes in one large suite—always with the same nurse.
I didn’t notice a nurse in any of Birdy’s posts.
But then, scrolling through one of the more recent IG stories devoted to her medical “journey,” I see it—a video of Birdy’s hand giving a clumsy thumbs-up to the camera.
Behind her, someone is prepping an IV. Someone in blue scrubs.
For a split second, the nurse’s face is visible, caught midstep.
Every cell in my body screams. Grace Poole.
My brain short-circuits. There’s no mistaking it—Grace’s lanky frame, those long gray braids, the exact shape of her jawline.
There’s a new post at the top of the feed: just a photo, this time of Birdy’s glitter-painted nails wrapped around a mug; she’s obviously sitting outside as dusk falls.
The post’s caption reads: “So grateful I can keep showing up for myself. It’s not easy, but definitely worth the effort.
Looking for inner peace and small blessings. #WholePersonHealth #journeyofhealing”
But I can’t unsee the background—behind the mug is a blue-painted wall. The same blue as the blue barn.
Grabbing my boots from the porch, I shove them on, not even caring that the left one has a burr stuck in it.
The sky’s nearly purple, thick with the scent of ozone.
I march up the gravel path to Chet’s house, indignation running in my blood like caffeine.
Then, a lone, distant neigh erupts from the stable.
That’s when it dawns on me. The horses. The fire. Birdy caused it. She endangered the horses. And Chet let it happen.
He lied to protect her.
I bang on the door. The sound echoes through the entryway, and seconds later, Chet appears, hair damp like he just showered, wearing a Merino tee and jeans so soft it’s criminal.
He fills the doorway, all broad and bathed in the glow from inside. “Jane? I thought we agreed there’s no need to knock.”
He’s in the middle of a smile but erases it when I push him, both palms flat against his chest.
“Those horses could have burned to death! And if they had, it would have been your fault, just as much as Birdy’s!”
“Hold on!” Chet stumbles back but quickly regains his footing. “Calm down, andwe’ll—”
“Don’t you dare tell me to be calm! You’re a liar! And you put those poor, innocent creatures in danger! Why? What the hell, Chet? How could you?”
“Jane—”
“I know.” My voice turns scary low. “I know who’s really living in the blue barn.”
He blinks. For the first time, I spot naked fear in his eyes.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
I barrel past him, not waiting for permission. The house smells like fresh sourdough bread, which Chet told me he was planning to bake today. For some reason, the idea of him doing something so pure and domestic infuriates me even more. I wheel on him in the entryway.
“Why’d you do it? All the lies—what was the point, Chet?”
He closes the door. There’s a problem-solving coldness behind his eyes. “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” he murmurs.
I follow, all but stomping my fury down the hallway. “The internet’s pretty much figured out that you’ve got Birdy locked up in the blue barn with Grace Poole playing nursemaid.”
Chet pours a splash of bourbon into a glass, then sets it in front of me without asking. “Not locked up. Christ, Jane. You think I’m keeping her like some kind of—what?”
“Hostage,” I say, syllables clipped. “But Instagram thinks that, not me.”
“Okay. What do you think, Jane?”
“Hmm, let’s see. I think you’ve been hiding Birdy away in the blue barn ever since I left for Wyoming.
I think Birdy set fire to the stables and that she stabbed Mason with a hoof knife.
And you lied to the police in order to protect her.
I think you lied to me, countless times, including when you said you wanted a future where we’d love each other.
But when it comes to why—why you’d lie, why Birdy would lie—well, I have no idea what to think, Chet. ”
I snatch the bourbon and down it, slamming the glass on the island.
“Faking cancer? Setting fire to a barn full of horses? She’s a terrible human being—that much is obvious.
But you—you’re awful in a much more subtle way.
Was it entertaining? Did you think, ‘Hey, this girl says she’s not on social media?
It’ll be a hoot, playing her for a fool, seeing how long I can lead her down the garden path! ’”
“Jane, that was never—” He covers his face with both hands.
“It wasn’t about you. That’s—no, fuck it.
That’s a lie.” He drops his hands and drills me with those blue-black eyes.
“The lies—those weren’t about you. But everything else, how I felt whenever I saw you smile .
. .” He sighs, shoulders sagging. “I tried not to fall for you, Jane. I tried and failed. Meanwhile, I had this untenable situation on my hands, and I guess I just hoped that things would work out somehow?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Was that a question?”
“No.” He rubs his forehead. “Look, you have every right to doubt me. But please believe that I would never let any harm come to those horses. It’s just—I didn’t know what to do. Birdy begged me to let her stay.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Because,” Chet says, “the nonprofit Birdy was working for—they were onto her. They threatened to expose Birdy. They were going to tell all her followers that she faked her cancer diagnosis.”
“But why was she faking? What was the point?” My brain is on the verge of overheating. “Why all the inspirational hashtags, the IVs, the big-eyed, brittle selfies? Why hide out in a barn with Grace Poole like an exile?”
“Because she really is sick,” Chet says, quick and sure. “It’s just not cancer. It’s never been cancer.” He pauses, rakes a hand through his hair, then fixes his gaze on me. “Ever hear of Munchausen’s?”
“Where people pretend they’re sick to get attention?”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “But it’s more complicated than that. Munchausen’s is a mental illness. For Birdy, it’s like a compulsion. I learned that the hard way.”
“You learned that the hard way?” Rage boils up inside of me. “Don’t suppose that burning down a barn full of horses is a symptom of Munchausen’s?”
“The barn fire was an accident,” Chet states.
“Birdy and I were in there earlier that evening. Talking. She likes clove cigarettes. After I left, she stayed for a while, and well . . .” He sighs and looks down.
“I’m not making excuses for her, or for myself.
” A hush falls. Three silent beats later, he says, “If it helps, I’ll take you to Birdy. She’ll want to tell you her story.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Birdy wants.”
“Yeah,” Chet replies, “but you might be interested in what she has to say.”
His voice is odd—at once hollow and hopeful. I’m out the back door before I’ve clocked my own decision. Together we stomp toward the blue barn, Chet’s hands jammed tight in his pants pockets. Something about that makes me want to both laugh and cry.
The barn looms in twilight, the paint washed blue-black by moonlight and shadow.
Just like Chet’s eyes. Walking inside, I expect the air to be packed with the smells of hay and old dust, maybe a whiff of clove cigarettes.
Instead, I’m hit with the aroma of strong coffee and, weirdly, citrus cleaner.
The interior’s been remade. The main floor is divided in two; one side looks like a hospital room, complete with a heart rate monitor and a railed bed whose mattress raises and lowers with the press of a button.
This can mean only one thing—Chet paid a lot of money for renovations and medical equipment.
All so Birdy could make her posts convincing.
The other side of the main floor looks like an apartment.
There’s a couch, two reading chairs, stacks of books, lamps, and some abstract painting that looks like it was part of a silent auction at an arts school.
I step around a pile of jigsaw puzzle boxes and spot Birdy.
She sits cross-legged on the couch, pale and small and in leggings and an oversized Henley.
Grace Poole hunches over a notebook at the kitchen table. She looks up, giving Chet a nod. “Oh, hello,” she says, as if it’s not weird at all, him and me being here.
“Are you really his aunt?” I ask Grace.
“Of course,” she says. “Who else, other than family, can you trust with something like this?”
“Jane,” Birdy’s voice is childlike—high-pitched and innocent. “So nice to finally meet you.”
Looking straight at her, I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
“Come on over,” Birdy says, patting the couch next to her.
“I promise I’m not contagious.” The words have a snap to them—humor perhaps, mixed with self-denial.
I walk over, boots thudding against the rug, and sit.
Birdy tucks a leg under herself and meets my eyes.
Her face is thinner than it looks on the internet, but her eyes are just as wide.
“So,” she says, “guess it’s time we have a little chat. ”
I almost laugh, but my lungs are full of mud. “Past time,” I answer.
She surveys me, chin propped on her hand, then glances up at Chet, who hovers in the background, nervous and fidgety.
“Alright, Jane,” Birdy says. “Lay it on me. Ask me your questions. Don’t hold back.”
“How could you?” The words scald my tongue on their way out. “Pretending to have cancer? Putting the horses at risk? What is wrong with you?”
Birdy smiles. “So much. Just because I don’t have cancer, that doesn’t mean I’m not suffering.”
I blink. “You’re not even sick.”
She shrugs, her mouth pinched. “Not true. I am sick—just not in the way people prefer.”
I’m shaking, but I breathe through it. “You caused damage. And Chet enabled all your lies.”
Her eyes flick to him. “That was never our plan,” Birdy says. “Chet says he wants honesty, but what people want and what they can handle . . .” She shrugs, tucking both arms around her knees. “I was the test run. You’re the real deal.”
My skin prickles. “What does that even mean?”
“It means he’ll be good to you. For a while.” Her smile is weary, but not unkind. “Just . . . be careful how much you love him.” She presses her thumb into the corner of her eye. “Because the day he decides you’re not perfect, it’s all over. Even if he still loves you afterward, it’s not the same.”
“You’re deluded,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “Perhaps. But when it comes to Chet, my eyes are wide open. Can you really say the same?”