Verity(59)

Part of me felt responsible. Had I just tried choking her again as an infant, or leaving an open bottle of bleach near her as a toddler, or ramming the passenger side of my car into a tree while she was unbuckled with the airbag turned off, all of it could have been avoided. So many potential accidents I could have staged. Should have staged.

Had I stopped Harper before she acted, we would still have Chastin.

And then maybe Jeremy wouldn’t be so fucking sad all the time.





Verity is in the living room. April brought her down in the elevator right before she left for the evening. An unusual change in their routine that I’m not sure I like.

April said, “She’s wide awake this evening. I thought I’d let Jeremy put her to bed tonight.” She left her in front of the television, her wheelchair parked near the sofa.

Verity is watching Wheel of Fortune.

Or…staring in that direction, anyway.

I’m standing in the doorway to the living room, looking at her. Jeremy is upstairs with Crew. It’s dark outside, and the living room light isn’t on, but there’s enough light from the television that I can see Verity’s expressionless face.

I can’t imagine anyone going to such great lengths to fake an injury for this long. I’m not even sure how someone could pull it off. Would she startle at a loud noise?

Next to me, near the entryway to the living room, is a bowl full of decorative glass balls mixed in with wooden ones. I look around, then pluck one of the wooden ones out of the bowl. I toss it in her direction. When it hits the floor in front of her, she doesn’t flinch.

I know she’s not paralyzed, so how does she not even flinch? Even if her brain damage is too severe to understand the English language, she’d still be alarmed by noise, right? Have some kind of reaction?

Unless she’s trained herself to not react.

I watch her for a little longer before I start to creep myself out with my own thoughts again.

I return to the kitchen, leaving her alone with Pat Sajak and Vanna White.

There are only two chapters left of Verity’s manuscript. I’m praying I don’t find a part two anywhere before I leave here because I can’t take the ups and downs of it all. The anxiety I get after every chapter is worse than the anxiety I get after I sleepwalk.

I’m relieved she had nothing to do with Chastin’s death, but disturbed by her thought process during all of it. She seemed so detached. Two-dimensional. She’d lost her fucking daughter, yet all she thought about was how she should have killed Harper, and she was fed up with waiting for Jeremy to get over his grief.

Disturbing is putting it mildly. Luckily, it’s coming to an end soon. Most of the manuscript details things that happened years ago, but this last chapter was more recent. Less than a year ago. Months before Harper’s death.

Harper’s death.

It’s the thing I plan to get to next. Maybe tonight. I don’t know. I haven’t slept well the last few days, and I’m worried after I finish the manuscript, I won’t be able to sleep at all.

I’m making spaghetti for Jeremy and Crew tonight. I try to focus on dinner and not at all on Verity’s lack of a soul. I purposely timed this meal so that April would be gone before dinner was ready. And I’m hoping Jeremy takes Verity up to bed before it’s time to eat. My birthday is almost over, and I’ll be damned if I eat my birthday meal seated next to Verity Crawford.

I’m stirring the pasta sauce when I realize I haven’t heard the television in a few minutes. I carefully loosen my grip on the spoon, placing it on the stove next to the pan.

“Jeremy?” I say, hoping he’s in the living room. Hoping he’s the reason there’s no sound coming from the television anymore.

“Be down in a second!” he calls from upstairs.

I close my eyes, already feeling the quickening of my pulse. If this bitch turned off that goddamn television, I’m walking out that front door without shoes on and I’m never coming back.

I clench my fists at my sides, growing really tired of this shit. This house. And that fucking creepy-ass, psychotic woman.

I don’t tiptoe into the living room. I stomp.

The television is still on, but it’s no longer making noise. Verity is still in the same position. I walk over to the table next to her wheelchair and snatch up the remote. The television is now on mute, and I am over this. I’m over this. Televisions don’t just mute themselves!

“You’re a fucking cunt,” I mutter.

My own words shock me, but not enough to walk away. It’s as if every word I read of her manuscript fans the flames inside of me. I unmute the television and drop the remote on the couch, out of her reach. I kneel down in front of her, positioning myself so that I’m directly in her line of sight. I’m shaking, but not from fear this time. I’m shaking because I am so angry at her. Angry at the type of wife she was to Jeremy. The kind of mother she was to Harper. And I’m angry that all this weird shit keeps happening and I’m the only one who is witnessing it. I’m tired of feeling crazy!

“You don’t even deserve the body you’re trapped in,” I whisper, staring straight into her eyes. “I hope you die with a throat full of your own vomit, the same way you attempted to kill your infant daughter.”

I wait. If she’s in there…if she heard me…if she’s faking it…my words would reach her. They would make her flinch or lash out or something.