She is the one stumbling out the door, she is the one gripping the steering wheel—white-knuckled in her misery—she is the one with the image of Callie’s stony expression as she left the room stuck in her head, even as she makes her way back to that house and to that husband and to that life she never, ever wanted.
And Eliza Banks has it easy, all cookie-cutter fine and content, but Eliza Ryder looks at herself in the mirror and she sees the cracks, she sees all the places where she is broken.
And just like before there’s no one around to put her back together again.
* * * *
It wasn’t necessarily strange or anything, the way she reacted when she first saw the girl—long black hair and bright red lipstick, eyes all sharp and quick—it was more like a funny little pause, air suddenly caught
