She had her suspicions, evidently, that Jill might have had a hand in Abby’s death, but with my prints being the only ones found on the trigger, she’d thought it must’ve been me. Especially because when she returned to the lake that night, I was the only one there.

As for the night Margot drowned, Callie told Flynn that the last time she laid eyes on Margot was when she stood watching us together through the window. My mouth went dry and my face turned scarlet when he relayed that, and I begged him not to tell a soul, especially Graham, about it. So far, he’s kept his word.

And when Callie saw Jill holding me at gunpoint, she told Flynn that everything just clicked—Jill’s long-simmering rage against Margot, Jill’s overprotectiveness of Brad—and she got close enough to hear the tail end of my exchange with Jill, my promise not to tell anyone what I knew.

I shudder to think of what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been out there. I keep going over ways in which I want to thank her for saving me, but I haven’t hit upon the right one just yet. But I know I will.

Tina, predictably, has reappeared, trying to worm her way back into my life, most likely to get the latest dish on things, but I’ve so far ignored all her texts. I don’t want to be friends with her, and also, I’m leaving that part of my life behind.

The toughest part to leave behind, so far, has been Margot. I think about her all the time. Mostly because even though I have some answers—she didn’t frame me, she wasn’t trying to screw me over—I also have lingering questions. Who was she, really? She was obviously fucked up and, at times, dangerous, and, of course, she outright lied to me more than once, but she wasn’t out to get me, and now I have a feeling she was a lot more vulnerable than she ever let on. I hate to admit it, but even after everything that happened, I do catch myself sometimes wondering what might have been if she’d lived.

Did I ever really know her? And did we really have something? I’d like to think we did, that the connection I felt wasn’t all in my head, but she’s as elusive to me now as she was when she was alive.

What did I mean to her? And more importantly, what did she mean to me? How did I lose myself so wholly when I was around her?

I’ve been FaceTiming with a therapist up in Chicago, trying to piece together why I risked everything with Graham and Jack, and how I can become more whole moving forward; so far, it’s helping.

I’ve thought about moving back to Chicago—if Graham would agree to it—but then, I’m sick of running. And mainly, I’m sick of running from myself.

So here I am this morning, sweat streaming down my back, surrounded by a sea of green plants—watermelon, summer squash, okra, and tomatoes—having no idea if I’m going to be here in a few months when they come to harvest, if Graham will have decided to throw me out for good or not, so in addition to planting these, I guess I’m also planting something else.

Hope.