Now, staring at the dark ceiling, she wondered how much of that had been true and how much had been something she told herself because the alternative—the real feeling, the full size of it—was simply too large to carry and still get up in the morning.
She turned onto her side. On the shelf across the room, her mother’s photograph was just a dark rectangle in the darkness. She could not see it, but she knew it was there.
She had never seen the letter, had never known the words, but somewhere without knowing it, she had been shaped by them all her life.
She closed her eyes.
She would go to work tomorrow. She would be calm. She would do her job. She would watch and she would think.
And when she was sure, truly sure, she would decide what to do.
Friday morning was bright and clear, the kind of morning that seems almost unreasonably cheerful when your mind is heavy.
Rebecca arrived at 6:55 as always. She let herself in through the gate—Mr. Caleb had given her a key at the end of her first week—and went to the kitchen to start the morning.
She moved through her routine: kettle on, breakfast prepared, table set, everything in its right place.