Chapter 2 Chapter 2

The next day, Doris began to erase herself from the house.

She started with the wedding ring.

A platinum band with a large, flawless diamond. It was a cold, heavy weight on her finger. A shackle.

She had once cherished it, polishing it every night, seeing it as a promise of a future that would never come.

She walked to the bathroom, her steps measured. She twisted the ring. It resisted, her finger swollen from years of wearing it.

She ran cold water over her hand, her knuckles turning white. She pulled harder.

The ring slid off.

It left a pale, indented line on her skin. A ghost of her marriage.

She looked at the ring in her palm. It caught the light, scattering brilliant, empty sparks.

She dropped it into the toilet.

She watched it sink, a flash of silver disappearing into the water.

Then she flushed.

The sound was loud in the silent bathroom. Final.

Next, she went to her closet.

It was filled with clothes Emit had chosen for her. Dresses in muted colors, elegant but conservative. The wardrobe of Mrs. Arnold, a doll.

She opened a large, empty suitcase on the bed.

One by one, she began to pack away the memories.

A small, worn teddy bear Emit had won for her at a fair when they were children. He had tossed it to her, a rare smile on his face. She had slept with it every night for years.

It went into the suitcase.

A framed photo of the two of them, taken just after the twins were born. She was smiling, exhausted but happy. He stood beside her, his expression unreadable, his hand resting stiffly on her shoulder.

Into the suitcase.

A book of poetry he'd given her on her seventeenth birthday. Inside, he had written, "To Doris. May you always find the words."

She had thought it was a sign of his affection. Now she saw it as a cruel joke. He had taken her voice, her words, everything.

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the inscription. This was the hardest part. The memory of the boy who had once been her hero.

She closed the book and placed it gently on top of the other items.

She zipped the suitcase shut. A black coffin for a dead love. She pushed it to the back of the closet, behind winter coats she never wore. Out of sight.

Her final task was the most difficult.

In a locked drawer of her nightstand was a small, velvet box. Inside was a silver locket.

It was a gift from Emit on their first wedding anniversary. He had left it on her pillow, no note, no explanation.

Inside, she had placed a tiny, folded piece of paper. The ultrasound picture of their first child. The one she had lost. The miscarriage that had sealed the tomb of their marriage.

He had blamed her. "You were careless," he'd said, his voice laced with disgust. "You were never fit to be a mother."

She opened the locket. The tiny, black-and-white image was faded. A blur of hope and pain.

This was the core of her attachment. The belief that their shared loss could, one day, bridge the chasm between them.

She took the locket and the tiny picture to the fireplace in her sitting room. It was cold and dark.

She struck a match. The flame flared to life, bright and hot.

She dropped the ultrasound picture into the empty hearth. It curled and blackened, turning to ash in seconds.

Then, she held the locket over the flame. The silver grew hot, scorching her fingertips. She didn't let go.

She watched as the metal tarnished, turning a dull, ugly black.

She dropped it onto the ashes.

The destruction was complete.

Later that afternoon, she went down to the main library. She needed a book.

The door was ajar. She heard voices.

Gigi's light, musical laugh. And Isadora's.

Isadora Galloway. Emit's younger sister. The woman who had once been Doris's friend, and was now her fiercest enemy in this house.

"He's finally getting rid of her," Isadora said, her voice sharp with satisfaction. "It's about time. The family name has been tarnished for long enough."

"He feels so guilty about Everleigh," Gigi said, her voice filled with fake sympathy. "He says he sees her face every time he looks at Doris. A constant, painful reminder."

Doris froze, her hand on the doorknob.

"Of course he does," Isadora scoffed. "Doris planned it all. The pregnancy, the marriage. She drove Everleigh to her death."

A lie they had all chosen to believe.

Doris pushed the door open.

The two women stopped talking. Their faces were masks of surprise, quickly replaced by disdain.

Gigi was sitting at Emit's large mahogany desk. His desk. She was going through a stack of papers, a pen in her hand, as if she owned the place.

Isadora stood beside her, a glass of whiskey in her hand.

"What do you want?" Isadora demanded.

Doris ignored her. Her eyes were fixed on the desk. On Gigi.

Gigi held up a small, amber-colored bottle. "Oh, this? I was just organizing Emit's desk. He asked me to refill his prescription."

Doris recognized the bottle. It was Emit's sleeping medication. He suffered from severe insomnia. She was the one who always made sure he had it. The one who would bring him a glass of water and the pills, standing in silence as he swallowed them before turning his back on her.

It was one of the few remaining threads of their shared life. A routine born of necessity, not intimacy.

Gigi smiled sweetly. "He says the ones you've been getting him haven't been working lately."

A small, deliberate cruelty. A final confirmation that Doris was no longer needed. Not in any capacity.

Doris felt a strange sense of calm settle over her.

"Fine," she said.

She walked over to the desk. She picked up the bottle from Gigi's hand. Her fingers brushed against Gigi's. Gigi's skin was warm. Doris's was ice cold.

She walked out of the library, the bottle clutched in her hand.

That night, when Emit came to his room, she was waiting.

She stood by his bedside table, a glass of water in her hand. The amber bottle was next to it.

He stopped, his expression wary.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Your medication," she said simply.

He stared at her, his eyes searching for something. A motive. A trick.

She didn't waver. She met his gaze.

She unscrewed the cap and shook two pills into her palm. She held them out to him.

He hesitated.

Then, he took them from her hand. His fingers were rough against her skin.

He swallowed them with the water she offered.

The entire exchange was silent. Mechanical.

He handed the glass back to her. He turned and walked to his side of the bed, his back to her.

She stood there for a moment, watching him.

The pills he had just taken were not his sleeping medication.

They were simple sugar pills from the pharmacy. Placebos.

She had swapped them.

It was a small, petty act of rebellion. An assertion of control in a world where she had none.

The pain of his rejection, of Gigi's victory, of being replaced in every single way, had solidified into a cold, hard resolve.

Every cruel word, every dismissive gesture, was now just another reason to leave. Another brick in the wall she was building around her heart.