David joins me at the bench and we walk to his car in silence. He opens my door for me, and I slip inside. Who would write such a thing and leave it for me, here, now, of all times? Everyone knows Mary drowned in the ocean after falling from the cliff. All those months when we searched for answers and never discovered a clue to explain how Mary fell from that cliff? Perhaps now someone has the answer? Someone saw something? Is someone on my side?

Ask Betsy what? I’ve told you I have my theory about what happened, a clear line of questioning the police didn’t explore. Who was the last person to see Mary alive? There’s your answer. Now it seems someone else agrees. I’m not saying Betsy did it, of course. I’m just not certain she didn’t. Does someone know the truth?

Or maybe someone wants to push me over the line, that blurry place between sanity and insanity, maybe it’s David’s parents, or David himself? I told you, I’ve stopped taking all those pills. I’m in control, but others might not see it that way. Maybe, like my husband, most people don’t really see me at all anymore. There are so many ways to look at it. One person’s crazy is another’s brilliance.

After the one-minute drive, David pulls slowly into the garage, drunk and extra careful. He gets out of the car and stumbles through the courtyard and into the house in front of me. No lights are on. Betsy isn’t home, I’m sure of it. Is she hiding from me, keeping more secrets from me?

“I’m going to bed.” David waves and heads down the dark hallway.

I watch him walk away, the master of conflict avoidance, and shake my head. Talking to him any more tonight would be a waste of time, anyway.

I’m too wired for sleep. I’ll wait for Betsy in the kitchen. When she comes home, I’ll confront her with this note. She always was jealous of her older, more attractive sister. Jealousy is such a powerful emotion. It makes you do crazy things sometimes but I’ll talk to her, get her to tell me the truth.

I pour a glass of wine and walk with my laptop and the note to the kitchen table. Many people believe I’m crazy with grief. Complicated grief, as Dr. Rosenthal calls it. Betsy and David are convinced I’ll never get over the tragic accident. I see it in their eyes, the way they look at me. They think I’m someone to be pitied. Ignored. Out in public, they tiptoe around me, hoping I don’t draw attention, hoping people will think we’re all just fine.

But at home, behind closed doors, I’m simply someone to run from, to hide from, to leave.