My hands shook, and I put the truck in gear and pressed the gas so hard, the tires squealed as I drove off.
It had been years since I’d driven, not since the farm. But I sped down the road toward West Egg, my hands trembling against the steering wheel, my heart trembling against my rib cage. I could no longer feel the heat or think about where I was going, what I intended to do. I didn’t have a plan.
If anyone were to ask me later—when Detective Charles would ask me later—I would swear it was never my intention to kill Jay. And maybe it was, or maybe it wasn’t.
All I knew was that I ached for some sort of justice for my sister, some sort of way to ease this pain in my belly, this empty space that was already beginning to eat away at my insides.
All I knew was, Myrtle was gone. Myrtle was dead. And Jay Gatsby had to be stopped.
Daisy August 1922
EAST EGG
I TOOK A BATH BEFORE leaving for Jay’s, trying to wash away all the filth and horror of the night before. I lingered, scrubbing every last bit of my skin. And then, instead of the pretty white dresses I’d been lounging around in all summer, I pulled a short black dress out of the very back of my wardrobe.
This dress had been a gift from Mother for my twenty-first birthday, shipped to Lake Forest from her favorite tailor in Louisville, and supposedly quite fashionable for the kinds of parties she imagined we were attending in Chicago. It was above the knee, as had been the fashion only a year ago, unlike this summer when long hemlines were in style again. But I didn’t care about that. The black dress reminded me of death. Of Daddy’s and Rose’s funeral, and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear it. Until now.
I hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours, but I felt too jittery to be exhausted. And every time I tried to close my eyes, even in the tub, all I could see was Tom’s woman flying through the air. The shocked expression on her face, like she couldn’t believe we’d hit her, she couldn’t believe that she was about to die.
“We have to stop,” I’d yelled at Jay after she hit the car last night, my foot going for the brake. But he’d shoved me out of the way and hit the gas with his own foot, his body covering mine, pressing against mine. I was no longer in control. （Was I ever really in control?） He was driving, on top of me. Smothering me. But he had to stop. He had to be stopped.
“Daisy,” he’d said, and his voice was so soft I could barely hear it over the roar of the engine and the roar of the hot night and the roar of death in my ears. “There’s nothing we can do, even if we do stop. And I won’t let you go to jail.”
Jail? But I hadn’t done anything. Jay had grabbed the wheel.
What can I do to prove my love for you? he’d said, just before she ran out into the road. Did he not realize there would just be another city, another woman? They were disposable to Tom. We all were.
“I didn’t hit her,” I’d shouted at Jay, my voice trembling as I’d finally stopped the car, in East Egg, in front of my house. “You did.”
“Oh Daisy.” Jay shook his head. “You were driving.”
“But you grabbed the wheel. It was… out of my control.” Everything was, wasn’t it. My marriage, my whole entire life. Even this car when I was supposedly in the driver’s seat.
“I was trying to help you swerve, to miss her. But it was too late.” Jay spoke so intently, that for a moment I wondered if he was telling the truth.
But then I shook my head. That wasn’t what had happened. I’d been the one trying to swerve; I’d tried to stop. Jay had pushed me out of the way. Jay had forced the car to hit her.
“You were drinking, Daisy,” he said softly. “Everything is blurry.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not what happened.” I would never hurt anyone intentionally, not even her. Would I?
Be good, Daise.
I was suddenly gasping for breath, unsure what was true and what wasn’t. I’d pushed the car door open and run out of the car.
“Daisy, wait!” Jay cried after me. I’d ignored him, and I ran up the drive toward the house. “Daisy, I’ll sit out here all night if I have to. I’ll never leave you,” he yelled.
I’d run into the house and sat in the kitchen and sobbed. And by the time Tom and Jordan got back, nearly an hour later, Jay and his car were gone.
* * *
BY MORNING, I knew what I needed to do.
I’d spent half the night arguing with Tom, going back and forth over who was to blame and for what. Myrtle didn’t deserve that, Tom kept on saying. She didn’t deserve that.