Thornfield Manor is a hive of activity, the likes of which it only seems to experience after a sudden death. Thorny’s sisters are waiting when I arrive, all three of them. They eye me like something found stuck to the bottom of a shoe but do their best to smile through their tears and hug me anyway.

Because hugs make everything better. Even if we aren’t allowed to go inside the house or speak to the prime suspect.

“They’re questioning him,” Caroline says, referring to her brother. “But I don’t know why. It was an accident. A terrible accident.”

She clings to that word, desperate to believe it. They all are, and they take turns uttering that magic word as the police shift through the house, feeding us bits of information at a time.

The preliminary consensus is Elaine’s death was swift and sudden. Somehow, someway, she fell off the upstairs balcony, breaking her neck, but they found no signs of foul play.

Still, they have to follow protocol. Which means Thorny was ushered into the back of a police car and taken in for “questioning.” Already, news vans are circling the outskirts of the property, desperate for a hint of red meat to feed on.

If only they knew.

My little red journal is missing. I know that even before we’re finally led inside and allowed to access a narrow sliver of the house so that I can gather my belongings. A silent police officer is my lone escort who follows me through the deserted entryway and up the winding staircase as my stomach drops with every step.

Yellow caution tape and a horde of police cordon off the rest of the hall. Elaine fell from the master bedroom, it seems. From experience, I know that the investigators will pore over every flaw in the railing and every bit of dust. They’ll sift through the untouched toiletries in the bathroom and the abandoned master bed.

My room looks just how I left it, at least. But, when I risk sliding my hand beneath the mattress, I find nothing. Just the edges of my old legal file and nothing else.

She found it. Elaine wanted to do a little spring cleaning to feel useful again. She may not be a faithful wife, but she can clean like one—could. My heart lurches at the use of past tense.

She could clean with the best of them all.

But then she found a naughty diary filled with sordid, lurid stories about her perfect husband. She wouldn’t know that they were only that—stories. She’d race to confront him, shoving the journal in his face. How could you?

And Thorny, always the stoic, would ignore her. Though, no matter how many times I spin that scenario around in my brain, I can’t envision the scenario where he would push her off. Ever.

Thorny was Thorny. He didn’t feel anything outside of a crippling sense of despair that led him to drinking. And, even drunk, he’d be too apathetic to resort to violence.

Right?

I chant the answer to myself over and over, leaving no room for anything else. Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes.

“Are you all right?” The police officer sounds annoyed.

“W-what?” I flinch, realizing that my face is wet. I’m breathing too loudly, choking on the hot air. My fingers try desperately to swipe the moisture away, but it’s no use.

It’s funny. An army of psychiatric professionals spent years trying to make me acknowledge guilt. Remorse is important, they said. It can serve as a block against impulsive behavior. You need to learn to take responsibility for your actions, Maryanne.

But they were wrong.

Guilt is pain. So sharp that you close your eyes against it and curl into a ball on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest. You’d take it all back—every bad, bad thing.

You’d give anything—everything you had—to take it back.

They release Thorny shortly after four a.m., but he’s not allowed to return to Thornfield. Marcia’s husband has to drive an hour away into the next town over to pick him up from the sheriff’s office.

I wait for them on the front porch of the tiny two-story rancher they rented for the night. It’s old and reeks of rotting wood and dust. When car headlights illuminate the driveway, I lurch to my feet, hugging my arms to my chest. Marcia’s husband exits the tiny rental car first, but after a second of waiting, I realize the passenger’s side is empty.

Apparently, Thorny wanted to stay at a motel on his own. Away from us.

Or away from me.