Copyright 2018 by Colleen Hoover

Until it wasn’t.
It happened in an instant. It was like the sun froze and darkened on our lives,
and no matter how hard we tried, the rays couldn’t reach us after that.
I was standing at the sink, washing a chicken. A fucking raw chicken. I could
have been doing anything else…watering the lawn, writing, knitting, anything
else. But I will forever think of that fucking disgusting raw chicken when I think
about the moment we were told we lost Chastin.
The phone rang. I was washing the chicken.
Jeremy answered it. I was washing the chicken.
He raised his voice. Still washing the fucking chicken.
And then the sound…that guttural, painful sound. I heard him say no and
how and where is she and we’ll be right there. When he ended the call, I could
see him in the reflection of the window. He was in the hallway, gripping the

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doorframe like he was going to fall to his knees if he didn’t. I was still washing
the chicken. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, my knees were weak. My
stomach began to lurch.
I vomited on the chicken.
That’s how I’ll always remember one of the worst moments of my life.
On our entire drive to the hospital, I was wondering how Harper had done it.
Had she smothered her like in my dream? Or had she come up with a more
clever way to murder her sister?
They had been at a sleepover at their friend Maria’s house. They’d been
there several times before. And Maria’s mother, Kitty—what a silly name—
knew all about Chastin’s allergies. Chastin never traveled without her EpiPen,
but Kitty had found her unresponsive that morning. She dialed 9-1-1, and then
called Jeremy as soon as the ambulance took her.
When we arrived at the hospital, Jeremy still had that faint hope that they
were wrong and that Chastin was okay. Kitty met us in the hallway and kept
saying, “I’m sorry. She wouldn’t wake up.”
That’s all she told us. She wouldn’t wake up. She didn’t say, She’s dead.
Just, She wouldn’t wake up, like Chastin was some kind of spoiled brat who
wanted to sleep in.
Jeremy ran down the hall, into the patient hallway of the E.R. They escorted
him out and told us we needed to wait in the family room. Everyone knows
that’s the room where they put the surviving members after someone has died.
That’s when Jeremy knew she was gone.
I’d never heard him scream like that. A grown man, on his knees, sobbing
like a child. I’d have been embarrassed for him if I wasn’t right there with him.
When we finally got to see her, she’d been dead less than a day, but she
didn’t smell like Chastin. She already smelled like death.
Jeremy asked so many questions. All the questions. How did it happen? Did
they have peanuts in the house? What time did they go to sleep? Was her EpiPen
taken out of her bag at all?
All the right questions, all the devastatingly right answers. It was over a
week before her cause of death was confirmed. Anaphylaxis.
We were hyper vigilant about her peanut allergy. No matter where they went
or who they were left with, Jeremy spent half an hour telling the mother their
routine, explaining how to use the EpiPen. I always thought it was overkill since
we’d literally only had to use it once in her entire life.
Kitty was well aware of her allergy and kept nuts out of their reach when the
girls were there. What she wasn’t aware of was that the girls had snuck into the
pantry and grabbed a handful of snacks to take back to their room in the middle

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of the night. Chastin was only eight; it was late at night and dark when the girls
decided they wanted a snack. Harper said they didn’t realize anything they were
eating contained peanuts. But when they woke up the next morning, Chastin
wouldn’t wake up.
Jeremy went through a period of denial, but he never questioned that Chastin
unknowingly ate the nuts. But I did. I knew. I knew.
Every time I looked at Harper, I could see her guilt. I had been waiting on
this to happen for years. Years. I knew, from when they were six months old,
that Harper would find a way to kill her. And what a perfect murder she
committed. Even her own father would never suspect her.
Her mother, though. I was a little harder to convince.
I missed Chastin, obviously, and I was saddened by her death. But there was
something unpleasant in how hard Jeremy took it. He was devastated. Numb.
After she’d been dead for three months, I was growing impatient. We’d only had
sex twice since her death, and he hadn’t even kissed me with tongue either time.
It’s like he was disconnected from me, using me to get off, to feel better, to get a
quick rush of something other than agony. I wanted more than that. I wanted the
old Jeremy back.
I tried one night. I rolled over and put my hand on his dick while he was
asleep. I rubbed my hand up and down, waiting for it to grow hard. It didn’t.
Instead, he brushed my hand away and said, “It’s okay, Verity. You don’t have
to.”
He said it like he was doing me a favor. Like he was turning me down for my
reassurance.
I didn’t need reassurance.
I didn’t.
I’ve had over eight years to accept it. I knew it was coming—I had dreamt
about it. I gave Chastin all the love I had every minute she was alive because I
knew it would happen. I knew Harper would do something like that to her. Not
that it could ever be proven that Harper had any involvement. Even if I had tried
to prove it to him, Jeremy would never believe me. He loves her too much. He’d
never believe such an atrocious thing—that a twin could do that to her own
sister.