In this case, I would rather be wrong than right.
I’m struggling with what to do with Verity’s manuscript now. I want Jeremy to understand his wife in the way that I now understand her. I feel like he deserves to know what she did to his girls, especially since Crew spends so much time up there with her. And I’m still full of suspicion since he spoke of Verity talking to him. I know he’s only five, so there’s a chance he was confused, but if there’s even a remote possibility that Verity could be faking it, Jeremy deserves to know.
But I haven’t worked up the courage to give the manuscript to him yet because it is just a remote possibility that she’s faking it. It would be more plausible to believe I was seeing things due to exhaustion and sleep deprivation than it would be to think a woman could fake a disability of that extent for months on end. Without any apparent reason.
There’s also the fact that I haven’t finished it yet. I don’t know how it ends. I don’t know what happened to Harper or Chastin, or if the timeline of this manuscript even covers those events.
There isn’t much left to read. I’ll probably only be able to digest one chapter before needing to take a break from the horror of this manuscript. I make sure the door to the office is closed, and I start the next chapter and decide to skip it, along with several others. I don’t even want to read about a simple kiss, much less more sex. I don’t want to ruin the kiss we shared by reading about him doing that with another woman.
When I’ve skipped yet another intimate scene and reach the chapter I feel may be an explanation for Chastin’s death, I double-check the office door again before starting it.
So Be It
I got pregnant with Crew within two weeks of lying to Jeremy about my pregnancy. It’s as if fate were on my side. I thanked God with a prayer, even though I don’t believe he had a hand in it.
Crew was a good baby (I’m assuming). By that point, I was making so much money, I was able to afford a full-time nanny at our new house. Jeremy was staying home with the kids after quitting his job and didn’t think a nanny was really necessary, so I called the nanny our housekeeper, but she was a nanny.
She enabled Jeremy to work on the property every day. I had new windows installed in my office so I could watch him from almost every angle.
Life was good for a while. I did all the easy parts of mothering and Jeremy and the nanny did all the hard parts. And I traveled a lot. I had book tours and interviews, which I didn’t really like leaving Jeremy for, but he preferred to stay home with the kids. I grew to appreciate those breaks, though. I noticed when I was gone for a week, the attention Jeremy gave me when I returned home was like the attention he used to pay me before the kids came along.
Sometimes I would lie and say I was needed in New York, but I would hole up in an Airbnb in Chelsea and watch television for a week. Then I’d go home, and Jeremy would fuck me like I was his virgin. Life was great.
Until it wasn’t.
It happened in an instant. It was like the sun froze and darkened on our lives, and no matter how hard we tried, the rays couldn’t reach us after that.
I was standing at the sink, washing a chicken. A fucking raw chicken. I could have been doing anything else…watering the lawn, writing, knitting, anything else. But I will forever think of that fucking disgusting raw chicken when I think about the moment we were told we lost Chastin.
The phone rang. I was washing the chicken.
Jeremy answered it. I was washing the chicken.
He raised his voice. Still washing the fucking chicken.
And then the sound…that guttural, painful sound. I heard him say no and how and where is she and we’ll be right there. When he ended the call, I could see him in the reflection of the window. He was in the hallway, gripping the doorframe like he was going to fall to his knees if he didn’t. I was still washing the chicken. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, my knees were weak. My stomach began to lurch.
I vomited on the chicken.
That’s how I’ll always remember one of the worst moments of my life.
On our entire drive to the hospital, I was wondering how Harper had done it. Had she smothered her like in my dream? Or had she come up with a more clever way to murder her sister?
They had been at a sleepover at their friend Maria’s house. They’d been there several times before. And Maria’s mother, Kitty—what a silly name—knew all about Chastin’s allergies. Chastin never traveled without her EpiPen, but Kitty had found her unresponsive that morning. She dialed 9-1-1, and then called Jeremy as soon as the ambulance took her.
When we arrived at the hospital, Jeremy still had that faint hope that they were wrong and that Chastin was okay. Kitty met us in the hallway and kept saying, “I’m sorry. She wouldn’t wake up.”
That’s all she told us. She wouldn’t wake up. She didn’t say, She’s dead. Just, She wouldn’t wake up, like Chastin was some kind of spoiled brat who wanted to sleep in.
Jeremy ran down the hall, into the patient hallway of the E.R. They escorted him out and told us we needed to wait in the family room. Everyone knows that’s the room where they put the surviving members after someone has died. That’s when Jeremy knew she was gone.
I’d never heard him scream like that. A grown man, on his knees, sobbing like a child. I’d have been embarrassed for him if I wasn’t right there with him.
When we finally got to see her, she’d been dead less than a day, but she didn’t smell like Chastin. She already smelled like death.
Jeremy asked so many questions. All the questions. How did it happen? Did they have peanuts in the house? What time did they go to sleep? Was her EpiPen taken out of her bag at all?
All the right questions, all the devastatingly right answers. It was over a week before her cause of death was confirmed. Anaphylaxis.
We were hyper vigilant about her peanut allergy. No matter where they went or who they were left with, Jeremy spent half an hour telling the mother their routine, explaining how to use the EpiPen. I always thought it was overkill since we’d literally only had to use it once in her entire life.
Kitty was well aware of her allergy and kept nuts out of their reach when the girls were there. What she wasn’t aware of was that the girls had snuck into the pantry and grabbed a handful of snacks to take back to their room in the middle of the night. Chastin was only eight; it was late at night and dark when the girls decided they wanted a snack. Harper said they didn’t realize anything they were eating contained peanuts. But when they woke up the next morning, Chastin wouldn’t wake up.
Jeremy went through a period of denial, but he never questioned that Chastin unknowingly ate the nuts. But I did. I knew. I knew.
Every time I looked at Harper, I could see her guilt. I had been waiting on this to happen for years. Years. I knew, from when they were six months old, that Harper would find a way to kill her. And what a perfect murder she committed. Even her own father would never suspect her.
Her mother, though. I was a little harder to convince.
I missed Chastin, obviously, and I was saddened by her death. But there was something unpleasant in how hard Jeremy took it. He was devastated. Numb. After she’d been dead for three months, I was growing impatient. We’d only had sex twice since her death, and he hadn’t even kissed me with tongue either time. It’s like he was disconnected from me, using me to get off, to feel better, to get a quick rush of something other than agony. I wanted more than that. I wanted the old Jeremy back.
I tried one night. I rolled over and put my hand on his dick while he was asleep. I rubbed my hand up and down, waiting for it to grow hard. It didn’t. Instead, he brushed my hand away and said, “It’s okay, Verity. You don’t have to.”
He said it like he was doing me a favor. Like he was turning me down for my reassurance.
I didn’t need reassurance.
I didn’t.
I’ve had over eight years to accept it. I knew it was coming—I had dreamt about it. I gave Chastin all the love I had every minute she was alive because I knew it would happen. I knew Harper would do something like that to her. Not that it could ever be proven that Harper had any involvement. Even if I had tried to prove it to him, Jeremy would never believe me. He loves her too much. He’d never believe such an atrocious thing—that a twin could do that to her own sister.
I’m struggling with what to do with Verity’s manuscript now. I want Jeremy to understand his wife in the way that I now understand her. I feel like he deserves to know what she did to his girls, especially since Crew spends so much time up there with her. And I’m still full of suspicion since he spoke of Verity talking to him. I know he’s only five, so there’s a chance he was confused, but if there’s even a remote possibility that Verity could be faking it, Jeremy deserves to know.
But I haven’t worked up the courage to give the manuscript to him yet because it is just a remote possibility that she’s faking it. It would be more plausible to believe I was seeing things due to exhaustion and sleep deprivation than it would be to think a woman could fake a disability of that extent for months on end. Without any apparent reason.
There’s also the fact that I haven’t finished it yet. I don’t know how it ends. I don’t know what happened to Harper or Chastin, or if the timeline of this manuscript even covers those events.
There isn’t much left to read. I’ll probably only be able to digest one chapter before needing to take a break from the horror of this manuscript. I make sure the door to the office is closed, and I start the next chapter and decide to skip it, along with several others. I don’t even want to read about a simple kiss, much less more sex. I don’t want to ruin the kiss we shared by reading about him doing that with another woman.
When I’ve skipped yet another intimate scene and reach the chapter I feel may be an explanation for Chastin’s death, I double-check the office door again before starting it.
So Be It
I got pregnant with Crew within two weeks of lying to Jeremy about my pregnancy. It’s as if fate were on my side. I thanked God with a prayer, even though I don’t believe he had a hand in it.
Crew was a good baby (I’m assuming). By that point, I was making so much money, I was able to afford a full-time nanny at our new house. Jeremy was staying home with the kids after quitting his job and didn’t think a nanny was really necessary, so I called the nanny our housekeeper, but she was a nanny.
She enabled Jeremy to work on the property every day. I had new windows installed in my office so I could watch him from almost every angle.
Life was good for a while. I did all the easy parts of mothering and Jeremy and the nanny did all the hard parts. And I traveled a lot. I had book tours and interviews, which I didn’t really like leaving Jeremy for, but he preferred to stay home with the kids. I grew to appreciate those breaks, though. I noticed when I was gone for a week, the attention Jeremy gave me when I returned home was like the attention he used to pay me before the kids came along.
Sometimes I would lie and say I was needed in New York, but I would hole up in an Airbnb in Chelsea and watch television for a week. Then I’d go home, and Jeremy would fuck me like I was his virgin. Life was great.
Until it wasn’t.
It happened in an instant. It was like the sun froze and darkened on our lives, and no matter how hard we tried, the rays couldn’t reach us after that.
I was standing at the sink, washing a chicken. A fucking raw chicken. I could have been doing anything else…watering the lawn, writing, knitting, anything else. But I will forever think of that fucking disgusting raw chicken when I think about the moment we were told we lost Chastin.
The phone rang. I was washing the chicken.
Jeremy answered it. I was washing the chicken.
He raised his voice. Still washing the fucking chicken.
And then the sound…that guttural, painful sound. I heard him say no and how and where is she and we’ll be right there. When he ended the call, I could see him in the reflection of the window. He was in the hallway, gripping the doorframe like he was going to fall to his knees if he didn’t. I was still washing the chicken. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, my knees were weak. My stomach began to lurch.
I vomited on the chicken.
That’s how I’ll always remember one of the worst moments of my life.
On our entire drive to the hospital, I was wondering how Harper had done it. Had she smothered her like in my dream? Or had she come up with a more clever way to murder her sister?
They had been at a sleepover at their friend Maria’s house. They’d been there several times before. And Maria’s mother, Kitty—what a silly name—knew all about Chastin’s allergies. Chastin never traveled without her EpiPen, but Kitty had found her unresponsive that morning. She dialed 9-1-1, and then called Jeremy as soon as the ambulance took her.
When we arrived at the hospital, Jeremy still had that faint hope that they were wrong and that Chastin was okay. Kitty met us in the hallway and kept saying, “I’m sorry. She wouldn’t wake up.”
That’s all she told us. She wouldn’t wake up. She didn’t say, She’s dead. Just, She wouldn’t wake up, like Chastin was some kind of spoiled brat who wanted to sleep in.
Jeremy ran down the hall, into the patient hallway of the E.R. They escorted him out and told us we needed to wait in the family room. Everyone knows that’s the room where they put the surviving members after someone has died. That’s when Jeremy knew she was gone.
I’d never heard him scream like that. A grown man, on his knees, sobbing like a child. I’d have been embarrassed for him if I wasn’t right there with him.
When we finally got to see her, she’d been dead less than a day, but she didn’t smell like Chastin. She already smelled like death.
Jeremy asked so many questions. All the questions. How did it happen? Did they have peanuts in the house? What time did they go to sleep? Was her EpiPen taken out of her bag at all?
All the right questions, all the devastatingly right answers. It was over a week before her cause of death was confirmed. Anaphylaxis.
We were hyper vigilant about her peanut allergy. No matter where they went or who they were left with, Jeremy spent half an hour telling the mother their routine, explaining how to use the EpiPen. I always thought it was overkill since we’d literally only had to use it once in her entire life.
Kitty was well aware of her allergy and kept nuts out of their reach when the girls were there. What she wasn’t aware of was that the girls had snuck into the pantry and grabbed a handful of snacks to take back to their room in the middle of the night. Chastin was only eight; it was late at night and dark when the girls decided they wanted a snack. Harper said they didn’t realize anything they were eating contained peanuts. But when they woke up the next morning, Chastin wouldn’t wake up.
Jeremy went through a period of denial, but he never questioned that Chastin unknowingly ate the nuts. But I did. I knew. I knew.
Every time I looked at Harper, I could see her guilt. I had been waiting on this to happen for years. Years. I knew, from when they were six months old, that Harper would find a way to kill her. And what a perfect murder she committed. Even her own father would never suspect her.
Her mother, though. I was a little harder to convince.
I missed Chastin, obviously, and I was saddened by her death. But there was something unpleasant in how hard Jeremy took it. He was devastated. Numb. After she’d been dead for three months, I was growing impatient. We’d only had sex twice since her death, and he hadn’t even kissed me with tongue either time. It’s like he was disconnected from me, using me to get off, to feel better, to get a quick rush of something other than agony. I wanted more than that. I wanted the old Jeremy back.
I tried one night. I rolled over and put my hand on his dick while he was asleep. I rubbed my hand up and down, waiting for it to grow hard. It didn’t. Instead, he brushed my hand away and said, “It’s okay, Verity. You don’t have to.”
He said it like he was doing me a favor. Like he was turning me down for my reassurance.
I didn’t need reassurance.
I didn’t.
I’ve had over eight years to accept it. I knew it was coming—I had dreamt about it. I gave Chastin all the love I had every minute she was alive because I knew it would happen. I knew Harper would do something like that to her. Not that it could ever be proven that Harper had any involvement. Even if I had tried to prove it to him, Jeremy would never believe me. He loves her too much. He’d never believe such an atrocious thing—that a twin could do that to her own sister.
