Page 25 of Bitter House

I’m surprised by the gesture but take the envelope anyway, tearing it open. My eyes skim the familiar font, searching for the latest secret with trepidation.

Bridget,

If you’re reading this, you found my last letter, and I’m assuming you found Vera’s secret too. I’m sorry to tell you it’s only going to get worse from here. I have another secret to reveal, as promised, and another thing for you to seek out. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to prove to you that I’m telling the truth about everything.

Your grandmother wasn’t just a liar.

She wasn’t just a fraud.

She was also a murderer.

You’ll find all the proof you need in the garden. That’s where the bodies are buried.

Signed,

A friend

PART 2

CHAPTER TWELVE

VERA BITTER

I was never sure about changing my last name after I was married. Isn’t that funny? In those days especially, it was unheard of for a woman to think of such things.

But I was a Shuffle, had been all my life. My daddy was a Shuffle and his daddy and so on, and I guess, in some strange way, it felt like giving up the last piece of myself I had, if I chose to do it.

Harold would’ve allowed me to keep the name, if I wanted. That was the kind of man he was, you know? Kind and thoughtful. He really listened to me, and I know from talking to other women around town just how rare that is.

So, in the end, I took his name. I told him it was because I wanted my children to have the same last name as both their parents, but in reality, I think I did it because I loved him and wanted to make him happy.

And, if I’m being honest, I loved the weight the last name carried. Being a Bitter in this town, I might as well be a Rockefeller or a Kennedy. Say the name, and suddenly tables open up, discounts are given, and people pop up to meet my every demand.

Harold was never the type of man to take advantage of that. He grew up with it, of course, so it was normal for him, but he tried not to let it get in his head. Me, on the other hand? I grew up with a mother who sliced already-sliced pieces of bread until they were thinner to make the loaves go further, who taught us broth could be a whole meal, and who split two cans of soup for dinner between the six of us. For me, power meant everything. It was a new concept, and frankly, I had a blast with it. Maybe too much, as Harold would sometimes point out once we were home, but he always said it with a hint of pride and that smile I’d grown to love so much.

I can still picture it now if I try. The way that smile made me feel could be studied. Entire books could be written about it. But…like all the best stories, it had to end.

And when it did, I was grateful I had the Bitter name. Because that’s exactly what I was: bitter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BRIDGET

I drop the letter onto the counter as if it’s on fire, the contents of my stomach roiling with what I’ve just read. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I watch true crime documentaries with Ana—sick and on edge. But this is worse. Whatever secrets Vera had, whoever she was, I refuse to believe she was a murderer. I refuse to believe she was capable of anything so atrocious.

But I have to know. I have to prove them wrong—this letter sender. Prove that they’re trying to scare me, and it won’t work.

“Why would they have mentioned the garden if they were lying?” Cole says when I tell him this theory. “It’ll be easy enough to prove them wrong.”

“Maybe they don’t think we’ll check. Maybe they think we’ll be too scared.”

“Only one way to find out,” Cole says, walking past me with a determined look.

I follow him out of the house. It’s getting dark already, the sunset painting the sky with watercolors in reds, purples, and oranges. It’s eerily quiet out here; the only sound is the swishing of our shoes across the grass.

My throat is dry as we reach the garden, and I stare down. Vera was always so proud of her flower garden. The few times I can remember seeing her smile, it was always here. She’d sit on the concrete bench in the center of the square garden, surrounded by flowers of every color and variety, and just…relax. It was rare for her, someone who always seemed to be busy going and doing, to sit still for any amount of time. But here she did.

The flowers are still bright and flourishing thanks to the gardener who likely worked up until Vera was gone. If there are bodies here, we’re going to have to tear it up. We’re going to have to destroy the place that was always hers.