“I don’t know why she was so afraid,” I continued. “But she always tried to hide her fear, as though she didn’t want to burden me with it. A few times I crept back into the house to watch her from the staircase. She was always standing in front of the window in her bedroom, surveying the driveway for hours until Clint came home from work, and then she’d get dressed and join us for dinner, like she hadn’t been this nervous mess all day long.” I shuddered. “It was eerie watching her turn from one person into another just like that. I became afraid. Not for me, but for her. I feared that she’d fall back into her mental health problems. And she did eventually.”
“Do you think that”—Chase paused, considering his words—“Clint might have hurt her?”
“I don’t think so.” I shook my head, even though the possibility had crossed my mind countless times. “I mean, not that I know of. I saw her getting dressed. She had no bruises on her body, if that’s what you’re referring to. She just seemed crazy, always talking to herself.”
“Did you ever talk to Clint about her mental problems?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Chase asked.
“Because I thought he knew. I mean, it was he who insisted she get professional help. How could he not know? They were married. They slept in the same bedroom, for God’s sake. Her nails were always bitten to their pulp, and her gaze was that of a crazy person. But even if I wanted to talk, Clint was always busy. Sometimes he didn’t come home for days and could barely be reached on his phone. I couldn’t talk to someone who had turned into a stranger again.” I fell silent again as I fought the feelings of guilt bubbling to the surface.
The guilt of knowing too much. Of not having done anything—when I should have. For many years, I had blamed myself, wishing I had talked to someone about the change. But it had come gradually, sneaking up on her like a venomous snake, until, one day, it was too late.
“It took me years, but now I understand why Clint sent her to get professional help,” I began slowly, and opened my fist. The tissue between my fingers was crumpled, reflecting the state I was in. “One evening, when she couldn’t reach Clint, I found her in the garden, crying. She was holding a pregnancy stick in her hands, so I asked whether I was going to have a brother or sister.” My mood darkened as I thought back to that fateful day. “I had never seen her so furious in my entire life. I had seen many shades of hers, but never anything like it. Her eyes were burning with rage. She was just—”
I broke off, struggling for words, but Chase didn’t pressure me. Instead, his gaze lingered on me patiently, waiting for me to resume my narration when I felt ready for it.
“I’m sad to say, but it was in that moment that I thought she should never have left the institution,” I said weakly.
Chase’s hand around mine anchored me in the present so I wouldn’t get lost in the past I had often relived it in my thoughts.
“Did she hurt you?” he asked softly.
“No, that’s not it. She never did.” My voice was weak, almost childlike. “But that day she was erratic. Crazy. She started to smash things and talk nonsense, like that the devil was coming to get her and her baby, and she held a shard of glass to her neck, threatening to kill herself.” I took a deep breath. “I think she was scared and that fear somehow changed her. Anyway, she made me swear that I wouldn’t tell anyone about the baby, and I didn’t. But”—I looked up into Chase’s eyes and found him listening intently—“I found the pregnancy stick later in the trash. It showed that she wasn’t actually pregnant. It was just her imagination. I think not telling Clint about the imaginary baby was a mistake.” I drew a sharp breath. “If I had told him, he could have helped her. A few days later, when I thought things had calmed down, she committed suicide while he was away. The police said she had poisoned herself, and all her clothes were found scattered in her bedroom, like she had raided her closet.”
Chase opened his mouth to speak when I held up my hand, stopping him. I didn’t want to hear that he was sorry, because that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Everything had happened such a long time ago that all the wounds had long since healed. What had remained, though, was a mystery I could never solve.
“There’s a reason I’m telling you this, Chase,” I whispered gravely. “Something else has been bothering me. It’s haunted me all the years, and I think it’s the reason why Clint offered you money.”