Throughout the entirety of her lunch, she stared at the rogue hangnail on her thumb. Time for a clipping, she thought as she cleaned up after her meal. She’d seen a pair of nail clippers lying around, but she knew how it went—things were never around when you wanted them. So she began her hunt for the nail clippers.

Juno stepped into Winnie and Nigel’s bedroom. The rattan fan whirred soundlessly above the bed, stirring the smells of the room. She was tempted to turn it off, but she knew better. Instead, she walked on the balls of her feet toward the nightstand. She’d start there first. Juno slid the first drawer open. Everything was unbearably tidy: three squat jars of lotion stood in a neat line. Next to them was a woman’s devotional, a tube of Carmex, three unused notebooks with floral covers, and a tampon. But no nail clippers.

The next drawer had much of the same, the organized clutter of an uninteresting woman: a box of truffles, two expensive-looking pens, more floral notebooks, these with Winnie’s handwriting on the inside. Juno sat lightly on the edge of the bed and flipped open the cover of the first one. Was it a diary of some sort? She squinted down at Winnie’s spiky handwriting, trying to make out the words. They were…thoughts. Dated, and one per page. That it wasn’t necessarily a diary made Juno feel less guilty about reading it. Pacifying her conscience with that, she looked to the first one. It read: Day after day it eats me. I am tired, but not tired enough to kill myself.

Juno frowned. Had she read that right? Little Miss Perfect Winnie Crouch had days where she just didn’t want to live?

She turned the page, thinking she’d opened it to a bad day—even people like Winnie had those once in a while, she supposed, but the next entry was similar: I tore the pages out of my favorite book, one by one…

Juno was more than shocked. Winnie wasn’t a darkness and gloom girl; she had subscriptions to Harper’s Bazaar, Esquire, Food & Family, and Marie Claire, the kind of person who considered herself an artist because of her beautifully curated Instagram account. Juno wasn’t making fun; it was just a fact—Winnie wasn’t drinking from a deep pool. Or at least Juno had thought so, until now. Abruptly she flipped the notebook closed and put it back where she found it. She really needed nail clippers.