Chapter 15
My lungs scream for fresh air.
All the darkness and beauty in Marmee’s house that I normally find intriguing now mocks me, threatens me.
It’s just a stupid tarot reading. And old portraits I’ve seen hundreds of times. Those coupled with the threats from Oliver create a foreboding aura, and it’s too much for me to take.
I march across the stonework patio, following the curve of the house, until I see the comforting sight of the crow fountain in the courtyard. I lean against it, the grainy cement beneath my palms stabilizing me, grounding me.
Maybe the wine went straight to my head.
Or maybe I haven’t had enough to drink. I’ve let a couple of messages with Oliver’s name completely unsettle my demeanor; I shouldn’t be this easily rattled.
My whole point in attending tonight, other than to shut Ava up, is to show my closest friends I’m coping with the breakup, prove I’m recovering.
If they were to see me out here like this, gasping for breath, on the verge of a panic attack, it would completely undermine what I’ve set out to do.
The front door sweeps open, and dread overcomes me just as quickly as it left.
The last thing I need is Constance or Ava or Marlowe asking any more questions, wondering what’s bothering me so much, or Preston and Damien treating me like some hysterical woman.
I’m relieved when I see it’s only Opal, her shawl draped over her chest, a chunky keychain in her hands.
“Oh.” She takes a step back when she sees me. “I didn’t think you’d be out here.”
“Just getting some fresh air,” I say, forcing a calm tone. “Heading out already?”
She nods. “This was a last-minute favor for Constance, but I’m afraid I have somewhere else to be. Hopefully the traffic has cleared up by now.”
She presses a button on her keychain. To the left of the house, a silver car roars to life. She walks in that direction before stopping and turning.
“I hope nothing I said bothered you,” she says.
It feels odd talking to her like this, the fourth wall collapsing between us. In hindsight, my behavior all night has been silly. I can’t believe I let a few brief notes and spooky cards have such an impact on me.
“Spiritual stuff makes me jumpy,” I say, sitting on the lip of the fountain. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”
She shakes her head, but I can’t help noticing her smile seems more genuine; she’s relieved I’m no longer as agitated as I was. She adds, “Happy birthday,” before continuing to her car.
I watch as the two bright headlights drift through the trees, and I imagine Opal trekking out into the night in search of more lost souls.
I’m relieved to have her gone, and yet I still feel vulnerable, here with Marmee and my closest friends and their partners.
I don’t want any of them to see the truth of what I’ve been going through, to see me for what I really am.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s happened in the past two weeks.
Maybe that’s the death Opal was referring to, the end of the life I’d planned on having with Oliver, and I’m not able to accept the reality of this new one I’m living on my own.
Didn’t Constance mention something similar earlier?
I inhale deeply, trying to find my center before reentering the house.
I look upward. The night sky appears a calming navy thanks to the megawatt sheen of the supermoon.
I watch as feathery clouds duck behind it.
In this moment, I can’t help feeling as if it exists only to ground me, to help me through, a beaming spotlight for my satisfaction alone.
Oliver will not be the end of me. Oliver is gone. And no matter what mind games he might have played in the past, none of that can touch me now.
As I’m turning to walk back inside the house through the front door, an unexpected sound steals my attention, strange noises coming from the back side of the house, near the conservatory where I’ve just been. Something otherworldly, unnatural, followed by a very human cry.
In an instant, my emotions are back on high alert. I stand quickly, looking behind me, staring at the crow fountain as though it might no longer be there, as if the earth might have opened and swallowed it whole, explaining the sound ringing in my ears.
But the commotion came from the opposite side of the house, not here.
I walk along the intricate stonework that leads to the back patio where I was moments ago.
That’s when I see it. Something slumped against the cobblestones.
For a moment, I wonder if it’s some kind of wounded animal, a deer or a coyote that’s wandered into human territory.
My instincts urge me to move, but my body responds apprehensively. My legs and chest and arms move in slow motion, protecting me from what’s to come.
I approach the heap on the stonework. I know what it is, and yet I don’t want to believe it.
I look behind me, at the second-floor balcony coming off the library. The railing is broken, splintered wood jutting out into the night sky like a gargoyle standing guard. Something has fallen.
Someone.
I move closer, fixated on the ground, trying to blink the image away.
Marlowe.
She’s sprawled over the cobblestones, clothed in white, a thick pool of blood beginning to stain the fabric of her dress. The multicolored flowers in her crown have fallen loose, scatter around her now like a body being laid to rest at sea.
Her skull is cracked. A gruesome indentation at the back of her head that’s visible, even from this angle. Blood—far too much blood—puddles at the back of her head, soaking her hair and the material around her chest. And yet that ghastly sight isn’t the worst of it.
It’s her eyes. They’re open, alive, searching.
Suddenly, I’m on my knees. Tears stream down my cheeks as I blink rapidly, trying to process the scene in front of me.
With each passing second, time seems to slow.
I press my hand against her cheek, too afraid to touch any other part of her.
She already appears so fragile, and yet futile comfort is all I have to give.
Her eyes stop their manic movement and lock on mine. The expression in her gaze penetrates me, transmitting her fear and confusion and regret.
“Marlowe!” My voice is shaking. “My God, what happened?”
Her mouth tremors, but she’s too weak to speak, too overcome by the many emotions seizing her.
I long to comfort her, to find the right words to say, but the shock of seeing her like this is overwhelming.
An hour ago, we were inside laughing and talking about our college days, fantasizing about our travel plans this summer.
Now, the future is useless, our memories from the past all that remain.
Marlowe’s body turns motionless. Her trembling hands, then her stare, then her breathing. A domino effect. All is still except for the blood spreading behind her, seeping into the crevices between the cobblestones.
She’s gone. One of my closest friends is dead. Marlowe is dead.
Only then do I scream.