I steady myself, take a deep breath, raise the bottle to my lips, and drink. The liquid burns like gasoline as it travels down and pools in my stomach. When I can’t take it anymore, I stop, and wait for the effects. I was a little tipsy with Denise last night (my God, was that only last night?) but I haven’t been drunk since Nicole and I enjoyed our last date night while Caitlyn was at her grandparents’. Drinking was something I avoided after her death, but right now, I don’t care.

I failed Caitlyn and I failed Nicole.

After another gigantic swig from the bottle, I’m seized by a fit of coughing as it ignites my throat. Once it passes, I put the bottle back on the fridge. I’ve drunk more than half of what had been left in a matter of minutes.

This is going to be bad.

I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water. I down it in one gulp, trying to put out the fire in my gut, and grip the side of the sink.

After a few minutes, I’m already getting slightly dizzy and lightheaded. On my empty stomach, the effects of the scotch are almost immediate. My fingers are growing less and less responsive.

I lean against the counter, no longer feeling happy or sad. I just don’t feel, which is what I want, but this was a mistake. The effects are still coming, and it’s going to get worse. I need to get to bed, right now.

Grabbing a glass of water, I head upstairs.

I steal a moment outside Caitlyn’s door to listen to her rhythmic snoring.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, before glancing down the hall.

The door to my bedroom is open. I’m pretty sure that I closed it. I always keep it closed.

I go down the hall and step inside.

For the first time, the room feels warm and inviting, but not in a ‘cozy’ way. It’s as though I’ve somehow won its approval, like it finally wants me in here. I stare at the big, warm, welcoming bed. My balance starts to go. I teeter for a few seconds, take a deep breath … and blow it through my lips like a horse.

I turn around and close the door behind me.

I go downstairs, shuffle over to the couch, collapse in a heap, and pass out.

July 20th, 1900

Two weeks and no word from Thomas. I’m more confused than ever. I know he must be waiting for his wife to depart for Boston, but I need to see him. I need to talk to him. I shouldn’t doubt his affection for me. I don’t but—

It’s that Patricia Fleming’s fault.