Chapter 29
Friday: The Night of the Party
I didn’t want Oliver to die.
Maybe that’s not true.
There were alternatives. I didn’t have to confront him alone.
I could have called the police. I could have sent everything I’d gathered about his criminal history and Danielle’s death to investigators, but in that moment, after witnessing the devious look in his eyes, observing the deadly syringe in his hand, none of those options seemed relevant.
He’d threatened to take everything I have. He’d threatened Marmee.
And he’d already killed at least one former love interest.
I couldn’t let him get away with that, and everything I’ve done since that night has been not only to cover up my actions, but to make sure I get away with the crime.
It’s helpful having studied films my entire life.
After Oliver died, I tried to hover above, take on the perspective of a viewer watching an actor on the screen, distance myself from the reality of what I’d done as much as I could.
What they say about violence is true: It’s not like in the movies.
There’s more blood, more sweat. A strange, metallic scent lingers for hours.
Lugging Oliver out of the house to his final resting place exhausted my entire body, my joints and muscles screeching in pain, and that was just the physical toll.
There are psychological repercussions, too.
But I haven’t had time to confront any of that.
My priority has been getting away with murder.
Almost immediately, I contacted my friends and family, telling them the engagement was called off.
I never admitted anything I found about his bogus career or stealing, making the breakup seem amicable.
Told anyone who asked that we weren’t ready to take the next step.
The messages and emails I’d found would work in my favor should the police ever dig deeper; on paper, it seemed he was ready to purchase a condo in Florida.
Besides, Oliver didn’t have anyone looking for him.
Our lack of involved family was one of the many things we had in common.
Even if he did, there was a clear paper trail leading him away from me.
My next endeavor was finding an excuse to leave the country; in the event I came under suspicion, there’d be enough distance between me and any pending repercussions.
I reached out to the sponsors who’d invited me to Cannes.
When they said I was still welcome, I jumped at the chance.
More than that, I decided to overhaul my brand, another natural decision in the wake of a breakup, transitioning from Tippi’s Takes to Tippi’s Travels.
Now I had a legitimate reason to be out of the country for the next six months. At least.
My lease was already due to end because of our planned move to California.
To an outsider looking in, it wouldn’t appear I was running away, but that I was making a rational choice to detour my plans in response to my failed engagement.
I created a travel itinerary for Europe, placing myself as far away as I could, mentally and physically, from the life Oliver and I had built together, from the crime I’d committed against him.
My last undertaking was this party.
Ava’s stupid theme night in honor of my birthday.
I kept my friends at a distance following the breakup, but not suspiciously.
I followed Marlowe’s lead, pulling back from my relationships, insisting I needed time to process.
The party meant I’d have to face everyone again before leaving, and it was important to show the people closest to me I was mentally sound and emotionally whole.
If the police, or anyone else, ever started asking questions about Oliver’s whereabouts, my friends would recall this last encounter and not find anything strange.
Of course, I was nervous about having it here of all places, in the same home where Oliver died, on the same grounds where he’s buried, but with Marmee’s encouragement, I acquiesced.
The party became a safety net of sorts, a way to further fluff my alibi should my behavior ever be called into question.
Who on earth would agree to host an event at the same place where a crime was committed?
Only my closest friends would be in attendance, none of them having any reason to pry into my secrets.
Everything was close to operating as planned.
And then Marlowe died.
No, before that, I received messages from Oliver, all the while knowing they couldn’t be from him. It was impossible. Someone was pretending to be him to mess with me, but why? Because they somehow uncovered what I’d done?
The photograph confirms it. Whoever is threatening me not only knows Oliver is dead, they know where I hid the body.
Could the same person have killed Marlowe? Did she somehow stumble across their scheme, and that’s what sent her over the balcony ledge?
One of the people at this party must have pushed Marlowe to her death, just as they must be the mastermind behind the threatening messages. Ava, Preston, Constance, or Damien. Any three of my closest friends, or a complete stranger.
Why would they choose to threaten me with the information? A confrontation or turning me over to the police would be easier. Then again, I’d had choices, too. I decided killing Oliver was a better option; whoever is threatening me must have their own reasons for putting me in their crosshairs.
The idea of spending the rest of my life behind bars is terrifying. Admitting to my loved ones what I’ve done is equally unbearable. If Marmee finds out what I did, she’ll never look at me the same.
And now Ava knows.
She stares at me with watery, bulging eyes. Hands shaking. Her complexion seems drained of life and color. Lips tremble when she speaks.
“Tippi, I don’t understand. That picture.” Her breaths become more ragged, each word collapsing into the next. “What is that? Who is—”
I rip up the photograph in my hands, along with the two cards from earlier in the night, tearing at each piece of paper until they’re nothing more than jagged confetti. I dash to the bathroom and drop the pieces into the toilet, flushing them away.
I can’t erase Ava’s memory as easily. Everything I’ve done tonight—all my actions before the party even began—was meant to conceal my crimes. Now I must explain to her exactly what she saw in that picture, try to make her understand.
I return to the room to find Ava perched on the edge of the bed. She’s leaned forward, as if she’s trying to catch her breath.
“Tippi, I need some answers,” she says. “What the fuck is going on?”
I stand in front of her, my body a barricade between her and the door.
“Oliver didn’t move away after we broke up,” I say. “The body in the picture…that’s him.”
Ava snaps back onto the bed, raises a trembling hand to cover her mouth.
“That’s Oliver? He’s dead?”
“Oliver wasn’t who he pretended to be. He’d been lying to me our entire relationship.”
“What lies? I don’t understand—”
I grab her arm, trying to calm her. She recoils from my touch. Is my best friend afraid of me?
“I went through his emails and found out he was lying to me about everything. His job. His business trips. He’d been stealing from Marmee and selling her jewelry to different buyers whenever he said he was out of town for a conference.
He was using me, Ava. And it was worse than that. Oliver was dangerous.”
Ava shakes her head, confused. “What do you mean?”
“His first wife. Danielle. She tried warning me about who he was, but I didn’t listen.
He killed her, Ava. Injected her with enough insulin to make it look like an overdose.
Her death is what convinced me to start looking into Oliver’s things in the first place.
I realized everything he was doing, and I followed him here. To Marmee’s house.”
She clenches her eyes shut, wincing as she processes.
“If you had proof Oliver was stealing or killed someone, why didn’t you go to the police?”
Regret squeezes my chest, crippling my ability to continue.
“You’re right. That’s what I should have done, but I wanted to confront him.
There was a part of me hoping it wouldn’t be true.
I found him in Marmee’s closet stealing her things.
I told him our relationship was over, that he needed to leave, but he kept denying everything.
” I pause to catch my breath. “He threatened Marmee.”
I dare myself to look at Ava, hoping she’ll recognize the sincerity in my eyes. She knows that nothing could come between Marmee and me.
“Something came over me in that moment. I don’t know how to explain it.
Turning him over to the police, trying to convince everyone of who he really was…
it didn’t seem like enough. Next thing I knew, I’d grabbed one of the statues in Marmee’s closet and hit him over the head.
” The dull thwack of the marble cracking his skull reverberates through my brain. “It only took one hit.”
“Marmee. Did she—”
“She was asleep. No one even knew we were here. I didn’t plan to kill him, but he was dead. Nothing could be done about it. All I could do was clean up the scene and hope no one ever learned the truth.”
Ava’s head turns, as though she can see through the walls to the courtyard, gaze at the pristine centerpiece in the front yard.
“Who took that picture? Who sent that message?”
“I don’t know. It’s the third one I’ve received tonight. Each card has Oliver’s name on it.” I avert my eyes. “But it’s obviously not from him. Someone is messing with me. I tried to delay the police, so I’d have time to confront the person.”
“You think it’s someone here?”
“Yes,” I say. “Damien.”
Ava is dazed. She tries to speak, but her throat tremors. “Do you think he pushed Marlowe?”
I nod vigorously. “They were arguing earlier in the night because he found out she was still texting with Michael. She said he was jealous. He could have lashed out and pushed her. The rest of us wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Marlowe. We loved her.”