Chapter 16
The kettle was a modern, high-end model that announced its boiling point with a polite, three-tone digital chime that sounded remarkably like a luxury car indicating an open door.
Felicity sat at the kitchen island, her hands folded in her lap, her fingers laced so tightly together that the skin over her knuckles felt thin and dry.
Brianne moved around the space with the practiced ease of a tenant who had spent weekends at Tucker’s homes for two decades.
She used the small ceramic strainer, measured the loose chamomile leaves, and poured the steaming water with a steady, unhurried hand.
"Tucker’s father had a saying about the country," Brianne said softly, her back to Felicity as she watched the tea leaves uncurl in the glass pot.
"He used to say the silence out here isn't empty. It’s just waiting for you to fill it with your own noise.
If you aren't careful, the noise you make isn't very pleasant. "
She turned around, balancing two small stoneware mugs on a lacquered bamboo tray.
She hadn't used Felicity’s charcoal gray mug, nor had she touched the blue one that Felicity had carefully restored to its proper place in the gradient after breakfast. Instead, she had chosen two identical, heavy cream-colored cups that Felicity usually kept tucked away on the highest shelf, reserved for the winter holidays.
"I don't think I'm manufacturing noise, Brianne," Felicity said, her voice dropping into that low, flat register that had become her default shield over the last three days. She kept her eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cream cup.
"No one is blaming you, honey," Brianne murmured, settling onto the leather barstool beside her.
She didn't sit with her legs crossed this time; she leaned forward, her elbows on the quartz, her face reflecting a deep, heavy gravity that looked entirely like love. She pushed the amber plastic prescription bottle—the one Tucker had left on the counter—an inch closer to Felicity’s saucer.
"But you have to admit, the timeline is getting a bit crowded.
The emails to Chloe. The middle-of-the-night texts to me. The utility closet door."
Felicity looked at the small white cap of the pill bottle. "I didn't leave that door open."
"Tucker said he checked the secondary generator breakers on Friday afternoon before I arrived because the lights in the mudroom were flickering," Brianne explained gently, her voice dropping into a low, rhythmic cadence that felt like a nurse explaining a sterile procedure.
She reached out, her cool fingers resting lightly on the back of Felicity's hand.
"He told me he specifically asked you to bring him the small brass padlock from the kitchen drawer while he was out there, and that you brought it to him, but you were distracted because you were listening for the delivery truck.
He thinks you might have just... kept the lock in your cardigan pocket and forgotten to give it to him. "
Felicity's gaze remained frozen on the quartz. Her mind scrambled backward through the fog of Friday afternoon, searching for the image of the brass lock, searching for the weight of it in her hand. Had she gone to the kitchen drawer? Had she stood on the porch while the rain misted the pine trees?
The memory was gone. There was only a blank, gray smudge where Friday afternoon used to be—a space entirely filled by the sound of Brianne’s taxi tires crunching on the gravel driveway.
"I don't remember that," Felicity whispered, her throat closing.
"I know," Brianne said, her thumb performing a slow, sympathetic circle against Felicity's skin, her touch steady, dependable, and impossible to fight without sounding entirely ungrateful. "That’s what’s so scary about sleep deprivation, Lissy. The brain starts deleting the routine details to save energy for the anxiety. You’re living two separate days at the same time—the day you think you’re having, and the day everyone else is watching you live. "
The phrase hung in the high-ceilinged room, thick and oily. The day everyone else is watching you live.
Felicity pulled her hand away from Brianne’s touch under the pretense of lifting her tea mug. The ceramic was hot, almost uncomfortably so, burning into her fingertips, but she welcomed the pain because it was sharp, clear, and unassailable.
She took a slow sip, her eyes drifting through the wide archway into the living room.
From this angle, she could see the dark walnut edge of the coffee table.
The Inconvenient Wife was no longer there; Tucker had moved it to the desk in his study on Sunday night, claiming he didn't want the "garbage prose" cluttering her recovery.
But she didn't need the physical pages anymore.
The narrative structure was already running beneath her skin like a low, systemic fever.
In the following chapter, Fiona had stopped leaving the house entirely.
She had spent three consecutive days sitting in her morning room, convinced that the local postal worker was intentionally withholding her magazines, until her sister arrived with a box of old correspondence she had found in Fiona’s own trash bin downstairs.
"You're doing it again," Brianne said softly.
Felicity flinched, nearly spilling the chamomile. "What?"
"The stare," Brianne murmured, her blue eyes filled with a devastating, protective sorrow. She leaned closer, her jasmine perfume mixing with the herbal scent of the tea until the air felt heavy, almost unbreathable. "You look at the corners of the room like you’re waiting for someone to drop from the ceiling, Lissy. It’s breaking Tucker’s heart.
He stood in the garage for ten minutes this morning before his train, just holding the steering wheel.
He told me he’s terrified that if he leaves you alone for a full day, he’s going to come home and find you... well, he’s just terrified."
"He doesn't need to be terrified," Felicity said, her teeth clicking together once, a sharp, metallic sound that felt loud in her own skull. "I'm just sitting here. I'm making tea."
"Then take the pill tonight," Brianne whispered, her voice dropping into that velvet, persuasive register that left no room for legal debate.
She tapped the amber bottle with her long, manicured index finger.
"Just one. Prove to him you're trying to get better.
Prove to yourself that you aren't trapped in that book. "
Felicity didn't answer. She picked up the tea mug with both hands, using the heat to steady her wrists, and looked out at the long, dark stands of pine trees beyond the glass.
The mist was beginning to thicken again, rising from the wet forest floor like smoke from a cold fire, slowly erasing the long, straight line of the driveway until there was nothing left to see but her own pale, unravelling reflection staring back from the pane.