53
“You’re doing it again,” Beth told me this afternoon.
“What?”
“Your whole zombie routine.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
She’s right. These past few days have been . . . unreal. I feel so spacey, like I’m not really rooted to the earth anymore. I’ve been more tired than I thought possible. More tired than after the most grueling of mogul events or triathlons or double headers. It’s an exhaustion that reaches down to my soul. Which makes sense, because that’s where it came from.
How am I supposed to deal with all of this?
In a way, I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know that Mrs. Mayer is carrying my daughter. Or that my daughter was the woman up there guiding me through the gray space. Or that I was in love with David.
Or that Alex was my killer.
Because it just doesn’t seem possible to go
