Page 84 of The Homemaker

“I don’t want you cleaning up my mess,” she says, easing onto the sofa with her hand hugged to her chest like she’s lost an entire digit.

“Welcome to my world,” I say. “And yet, you continue to do things for me. This is the least I can do.” I crouch before her, resting my hands on the cushion beside her legs.

She seems to hold her breath under the scrutiny of my endless gaze.

“That night …” I briefly close my eyes, shaking my head.

“I don’t remember that night,” she whispers. “How did it end?”

I open my eyes into tiny slits. “You … you don’t know?”

She slowly shakes her head.

I blink, expressionless, motionless, until my throat bobs in a hard swallow. “We were on our way home from dinner. You were leaving the next day. It was raining, and I hit the brakes.” I shake my head. “I didn’t hit them hard. We weren’t in any danger, but we skidded a little and you panicked, opened the door, and jumped out just before the bridge. I stopped the car and chased after you as you slid down the embankment, yelling for Chris.”

Our gazes meet, and I take a moment, unsure if I can tell her without losing myself again. Maybe it will feel like a story with different characters—fictional ones.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Murphy

Not every ending is a happily ever after.

It’s not your fault.

Eight Years Earlier …

Mud clumpedto my dress shoes, so I discarded them before diving into the water after Alice. Who was Chris? Where was she going? It was dark, and the night sky mixed with rain seemed to swallow her whole. I blinked the water from my eyes as my arms and legs propelled me forward into the abyss, hoping to catch her.

“Chris!” she cried, slapping her hands against the surface.

I hooked my arm around her waist and used my other arm and legs to pull us towardthe shore.

“Let go of me!” She wriggled in my hold, and several times she broke free and I had to chase her.

By the time I got her to the shore, she was crying uncontrollably. “Alice?” I tried to snap her out of whatever state she was in, but my attempts were futile.

She kicked and screamed as I carried her up the hill, slipping onto my knees every few steps as the rain continued to make a mudslide of the embankment.

“Get away! Don’t touch me!” She flailed her arms, hitting me in the face more than once.

When I released her, she fell to her butt and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth on the shoulder a few feet behind my car. I glanced around, hoping someone would stop and … I wasn’t sure. Help me? Help her?

Who was Chris? Did I need to call 9-1-1? And say what?

After stabbing my hands into my hair and shaking my head while watching this unrecognizable woman rock in the fetal position, I searched the front seat and pulled out her phone. When I squatted in front of her, she ignored me while chanting, “Don’t drown. Don’t drown.”

I softly peeled her index finger from her shin and used it to unlock her phone. Then I searched her contacts and found a woman named Krista Yates. I took a chance and called her.

“Hello?”

I plugged my opposite ear. “Hello?”

Again, she said, “Hello.”

“Is this Krista?”

“Yes.”