XIX

Amelia’s room is the epitome of a guest room, the walls are a dull gray, more brown than anything, the bed a full and placed in the middle of the bedroom with a modest, redwood nightstand with a drawer and only a tissue box and a lamp atop it. It’s a far cry from the very lived in room Amelia had at the estate: the personalized bedspread, the floral mural on her wall, the custom made jewelry box on her dresser.

That being said, Amelia shows no hesitation to hop onto the bed and lay her head down on the pillow before gesturing I am, in fact, allowed to do the same.

“We didn’t get to talk about your bff-time with Rosemary,” Amelia says after I’ve sat down on the side of the bed, comfortably resting my weight on my elbow. Her tone, although not-pressing, is decidedly disappointed. Whether that’s in the fact that I had ‘bff-time with Rosemary’ or that we’ve yet to have an opportunity to speak on the matter, despite it only having happened on Friday.