Page 62 of Total Jane Wreck

To explain her actual hospital visits, the combo theory says Chet kidnapped her and is forcing her to fake cancer, staging both “home” and “hospital” scenes in one large suite—always with the same nurse.

I didn’t notice a nurse in any of Birdy’s posts. But then, scrolling through one of the more recent IG stories devoted to her medical “journey,” I see it—a video of Birdy’s hand giving a clumsy thumbs-up to the camera. Behind her, someone is prepping an IV. Someone in blue scrubs. For a split second, the nurse’s face is visible, caught midstep.

Every cell in my body screams. Grace Poole.

My brain short-circuits. There’s no mistaking it—Grace’s lanky frame, those long gray braids, the exact shape of her jawline.

There’s a new post at the top of the feed: just a photo, this time of Birdy’s glitter-painted nails wrapped around a mug; she’s obviously sitting outside as dusk falls. The post’s caption reads: “So grateful I can keep showing up for myself. It’s not easy, but definitely worth the effort. Looking for inner peace and small blessings. #WholePersonHealth #journeyofhealing”

But I can’t unsee the background—behind the mug is a blue-painted wall. The same blue as the blue barn.

Grabbing my boots from the porch, I shove them on, not even caring that the left one has a burr stuck in it. The sky’s nearly purple, thick with the scent of ozone. I march up the gravel path to Chet’s house, indignation running in my blood like caffeine. Then, a lone, distant neigh erupts from the stable.

That’s when it dawns on me. The horses. The fire. Birdy caused it. She endangered the horses. And Chet let it happen.

He lied to protect her.

I bang on the door. The sound echoes through the entryway, and seconds later, Chet appears, hair damp like he just showered, wearing a Merino tee and jeans so soft it’s criminal.

He fills the doorway, all broad and bathed in the glow from inside. “Jane? I thought we agreed there’s no need to knock.”

He’s in the middle of a smile but erases it when I push him, both palms flat against his chest.

“Those horses could have burned to death! And if they had, it would have been your fault, just as much as Birdy’s!”

“Hold on!” Chet stumbles back but quickly regains his footing. “Calm down, andwe’ll—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to be calm! You’re a liar! And you put those poor, innocent creatures in danger! Why? What the hell, Chet? How could you?”

“Jane—”

“I know.” My voice turns scary low. “I know who’s really living in the blue barn.”

He blinks. For the first time, I spot naked fear in his eyes.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I barrel past him, not waiting for permission. The house smells like fresh sourdough bread, which Chet told me he was planning to bake today. For some reason, the idea of him doing something so pure and domestic infuriates me even more. I wheel on him in the entryway.

“Why’d you do it? All the lies—what was the point, Chet?”

He closes the door. There’s a problem-solving coldness behind his eyes. “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” he murmurs.

I follow, all but stomping my fury down the hallway. “The internet’s pretty much figured out that you’ve got Birdy locked up in the blue barn with Grace Poole playing nursemaid.”

Chet pours a splash of bourbon into a glass, then sets it in front of me without asking. “Not locked up. Christ, Jane. You think I’m keeping her like some kind of—what?”

“Hostage,” I say, syllables clipped. “But Instagram thinks that, not me.”

“Okay. What do you think, Jane?”

“Hmm, let’s see. I think you’ve been hiding Birdy away in the blue barn ever since I left for Wyoming. I think Birdy set fire to the stables and that she stabbed Mason with a hoof knife. And you lied to the police in order to protect her. I think you lied to me, countless times, including when you said you wanted a future where we’d love each other. But when it comes to why—why you’d lie, why Birdy would lie—well, I have no idea what to think, Chet.”

I snatch the bourbon and down it, slamming the glass on the island. “Faking cancer? Setting fire to a barn full of horses? She’s a terrible human being—that much is obvious. But you—you’re awful in a much more subtle way. Was it entertaining? Did you think, ‘Hey, this girl says she’s not on social media? It’ll be a hoot, playing her for a fool, seeing how long I can lead her down the garden path!’”

“Jane, that was never—” He covers his face with both hands. “It wasn’t about you. That’s—no, fuck it. That’s a lie.” He drops his hands and drills me with those blue-black eyes. “The lies—those weren’t about you. But everything else, how I felt whenever I saw you smile . . .” He sighs, shoulders sagging. “I tried not to fall for you, Jane. I tried and failed. Meanwhile, I had this untenable situation on my hands, and I guess I just hoped that things would work out somehow?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Was that a question?”