Chapter Seventy-One. Melanie
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
MELANIE
Night has fallen. Outside the tall glass windows, snow slants down in silver sheets, moonlight bouncing off the drifts so that the night looks strangely bright, like twilight stretched too long. Every time the wind gusts, the flakes swirl and scatter shadows across the glass.
Inside, the room is dim, except for the orange glow of the space heaters, the harsh slice of a construction lamp propped on the floor.
Every time someone walks past it, their shadow balloons up the wall, stretching long across the beams of the ceiling.
The neat rows of chairs are gone, dragged into circles, blankets spread over the floor where girls have curled themselves into nests.
A few moms lean against the wall with their eyes closed, heads tipping forward, while others sip champagne from paper cups, laughter too sharp in the cold.
I count my children—one, two, three—the way I always do when we’re out in a crowd, making sure everyone is accounted for. Then I slip down the hallway.
The door is partly open, and I peer in. Olivia lies on the sofa, knees curled up to her chest, and she looks so small it makes my heart ache. Emily perches by her head, stroking her hair, humming, “You Are My Sunshine,” as if Olivia were a toddler.
I knock on the frame. Emily looks up, offers a weak smile, then whispers something in Olivia’s ear before joining me in the hall and shutting the door behind her.
“How is she?”
Emily shrugs, crossing her arms. There are dark shadows under her eyes.
“What about you?” I touch her elbow. I’ve always gotten along fine with Emily.
Waylon and I have dinner sometimes with her and Mark, whenever the girls are getting together for one thing or another.
Sometimes in the beginning, Cat would lash out at me about it, when she was drunk or high, throwing punches at the world.
She’d say I betrayed her, that I replaced her with a new best friend.
But that wasn’t true. No one could replace Cat, not for me.
The bond we had went deeper than friendship.
Our souls knitted together so tightly sometimes I felt I’d suffocate.
Now it’s like half my heart’s been ripped from my body, the wound raw and open.
“You can’t pour from an empty cup,” I tell Emily.
“Why don’t I get you some food?” The refreshments table is still laid out, picked over and stale.
Emily tips her head toward the main room. “Mark’s getting us some sandwiches now.”
“That’s good.”
“I hate seeing her hurting.” Emily means it.
She’s been a good mother to that girl. When she and Mark first got married, they tried for kids of their own, but after two miscarriages, Emily didn’t want to try anymore.
God already gave me a daughter, she told me once.
Now, Emily grinds the heels of her hands into her eyes.
“I’m just so tired, you know? I’ve done this so many times.
Over and over. Sitting on Olivia’s bed, rubbing her back while she cries because Cat let her down. ”
Heat flashes through me. “Cat didn’t let her down,” I remind her. “She’s dead.”
“Oh, God, I know. Sorry. I know. I’m just tired.”
We both turn to see Mark heading our way, a plastic plate piled with finger sandwiches.
I give Emily’s arm one last squeeze. “Take care of yourself, all right?”
Back in the main room, I scan for my children again. The women drinking champagne are talking louder than I think they mean to. “She was the first one here. That’s all I’m saying,” Beverly Jean says, throwing up her hands.
“Who was the first one here?” Kennedy Claire asks, the sharp click of her heels echoing across the floor as she marches up to the group.
“Oh, hey, honey,” Beverly Jean croons, all syrupy sweet, the tops of her ears blushing pink. “Why don’t you join us?”
Kennedy Claire looks down on Beverly Jean like she’s a piece of gum stuck to her stiletto. “Don’t let me interrupt you. Go on.”
Lindsey laughs nervously. “We were just saying you were the first one up here, getting things ready for the pageant.”
“All by yourself,” someone else adds.
The air hums with implication. Early morning, the construction site deserted, the Amenity Center empty, not a single witness. Only Kennedy Claire. And Cat, of course, down at the model home.
“I got here at 8 AM to meet the florist,” Kennedy Claire says. “Ask her yourself.”
I watch the exchange, uneasy. Suspicion feels like a living thing, something in the air as real as the chill. There’s too much time with nothing to do but speculate. One wrong look, one gossipy whisper, and suddenly you’re on trial.
I turn away and nearly bump into Iggy. Her dark hair is damp, strands sticking to her cheeks. She’s holding a wet shoebox tucked under her arm. “Did you go outside?” I ask.
“Hey,” she says, lowering her voice. “How well do you actually know Magnuson?”
Before I can answer, her gaze flicks past me, measuring the room like she’s fitting puzzle pieces together.
Then, without warning, the doors swing open, a gust of icy wind rushing inside. Snow whirls in, flurrying across the floor before the door slams shut again. Conversation stalls, every head turning. For a beat, no one breathes.