I walked into the library knowing Jack was still writing in his office or sound asleep (he hadn't been wishing me goodnight the last couple days for he was falling asleep in exhaustion directly on the floor of the office after whole days' worth of writing). So, when I crept into the library, I didn't lock the door. . .

I found Craig holding a book by Vanilla candlelight. But he wasn't reading it. No, he was looking over at a painting on the wall. A picture of a brunette girl holding up a red rose, smiling chastely at the camera—it was no doubt the portrait of the homeowner's daughter. I don't know why but when I took notice of his admiration of the girl's photo, I felt instantly jealous. So, I said, "Do you think she's pretty?"

Craig jumped suddenly not knowing I had come in. His face turned bright red and he stood to his feet at once. "Zara—how long have you been standing there?"

I smiled wearily and crossed through the candlelight to the center of the room. "Not as long as you've been staring at that picture of the homeowner's daughter. Is she the reason you're in here all the time?"

Craig frowned upon insult. "No of course not. You take me for a lonely pervert whose only intention is to stare in admiration at the pictures of strangers?"

I looked away from him and saw the portrait in its hi-definition beauty. She looked more beautiful than I, I thought. She must be even wealthier than I, I thought. I could only wonder how many followers she had on Instagram, on Facebook, on Twitter, on Snapchat and all that jazz. She even looked like she would age better than I. I felt my face turn green at the thought of her relationship status. Probably engaged already to an older man to get married by age eighteen and move with him to places like Italy and go traveling every week I presumed, living on her husband's income and having a fertile life with the love of a baby whenever she wished to have one. Looking at her figure, she must have weighed a feather, or less. And by that twinkle in her eye, the thirsty smile across her enamel patio of pearly-white, perfect teeth, I could tell she was hungry for the world, and would own it to the wielding of her ambitious power. She could be whatever she wanted, I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was smart and could be whatever she wanted, have whatever she wanted, and I don't know why, but when I saw Craig's eyes flush over her face with the admiration a child has for the sight of a brand-new world much bigger than he, I wished for a second, that she, too, was under the water.

"Do you wish my hair was straight like hers?" I asked. The question came out of me beyond my control like an echo from a faraway cave. I wasn't even looking at Craig when I asked my question, I was too busy staring into the eyes of that ghost, and felt own eyes turn dark green. And as I stared with frozen brow at the brown hair flowing like rich gloss down the sides of her perfectly complexioned face, I felt Craig walk around the desk and come to me.

What happened next, I could never justify. I don't think I would ever tell Jack.