Chapter 34
Inside the parlor, Damien remains at the bar, reaching for yet another drink. Constance lounges on the sofa, weeping into a pillow. She lifts her head when she hears us. The light from the fireplace licks her face, accentuating tear-stained cheeks.
She struggles to walk across the room. I think she’s coming toward me, but then she falls into Preston’s arms. The two embrace, the side of her face resting against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she says to him. “I never wanted her to find out this way.”
“I know,” he says, gently rubbing the back of Constance’s hair.
I blink several times, trying to make sense of the image before me. It feels as if I’m in some time-bending episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I’ve seen Ava and Preston interact with each other like this countless times. The affection, the intimacy. I imagine Ava crying in the other room.
“Absolutely not,” I say, waving my hands. “Do not act that way in front of me.”
Damien, who seems just as perplexed, says, “What’s going on?”
No one answers right away. It’s too hard to put the situation into words, every explanation forcing us to relive the pain of the last half hour.
“Preston and Constance are having an affair,” I say, at last. “That’s why Ava is upset.”
“What the fuck?” Damien says.
Preston steps forward. “Don’t be a dick, man. None of this concerns you.”
“This night keeps getting crazier and crazier,” Damien says, backing away from a potential fight.
Preston, overwhelmed by everything unfolding, returns his attention to Constance. “I need to step away for a second.”
“Should I come with you?” she asks, a pestering eagerness in her voice.
“No,” he says, plainly. “I need a moment alone.”
His casual dismissal of Constance is cringeworthy. He walks away, disappearing into the Reading Room, then through the glass doors of the conservatory. Constance hobbles back to the sofa. She stares ahead at the flickering flames.
“None of it was supposed to happen this way.”
I can’t stop myself from responding. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“We wanted to tell her together,” she says. “After the baby was born.”
“Tell her what exactly?”
“That Preston and I were going to be together.”
This response is even more shocking than the reveal of the affair.
Constance has rarely maintained a relationship for more than a few months at a time.
Preston was a complete womanizer before he met Ava, and based on tonight’s discoveries, still is.
The idea these two would try to be together is laughable.
“You can’t be serious,” I say. “You were going to start a new life with the husband of your best friend?”
Constance doesn’t respond. She rests her forehead against her arms, begins crying again.
“With friends like these, you don’t need enemies,” Damien says, inhaling the dregs of his drink.
I study him, the way he confidently pours amber liquid into the diamond-cut glass, the way his eyes flicker around the room, appraising miscellaneous details.
He’s been taunting me all night, his possession of the phone confirms it, but with all the drama unfolding among the other houseguests, I’ve failed to confront him.
“You don’t know anything about us,” I say, watching him closely. “You only met us tonight.”
“I’ve seen enough,” he says, tossing his head toward Constance. “Can you cut it out over there?”
Constance ignores him. Her sobs grow louder.
“Why don’t you leave her alone?”
Damien cuts me with a menacing stare. “I don’t know what Marlowe saw in any of you.”
I’m angered that he so casually says her name. For all I know, he’s the one who pushed her off the balcony.
Marlowe. We’ve been inside, exposing one duplicitous action after another, all while she rots beneath an ink-black sky. I can’t bear the thought of her being exposed to the elements any longer. Can’t imagine birds picking at her flesh as though it’s an endless feast.
But if I go to her, that leaves Constance alone with Damien. Even though I’m disgusted with her for what she did to Ava, I don’t want to leave her vulnerable. I think about the baby. I remember Marlowe, whose life has already been cut short.
“Are you going to be okay if I step away for a moment?” I ask Constance.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to cover Marlowe.”
Marlowe’s dignity needs to be preserved. I walk over to the sofa, grabbing the plush blanket that drapes over the backrest. I imagine laying the heavy fabric over Marlowe’s stiffening corpse.
“That’s good,” Constance says, weakly. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“We’ll be fine right here,” Damien says, and I can’t tell if the comment is meant to be threatening or condescending.
I exit through the front door, the cooling breeze doing little to soothe my anxieties. The silence disturbs me. Usually, I enjoy the quiet, but now it’s unsettling, as if the lingering spirits around Marmee’s estate have scattered, leaving us stranded.
I walk past the crow fountain. The persistent tinkling of water rising from the crows’ mouths and falling to the pool below is comforting, but only for a moment. The sound weakens as I walk around the side of the house and my eyes fall on Marlowe’s body. I’m unable to look away.
And yet, I’m not seeing Marlowe, covered in blood and flowers, on the unforgiving stone patio.
I see countless moments with my friend over the years.
Nights out in college. The delicious meals we shared during our monthlong trek through Europe.
I picture Marlowe on her wedding day to Michael.
She was happy then, I know it. Even though she could never predict how it would end, she was confident in her decision.
At peace. She and Michael loved each other, if only for a little while, a reminder that not all love stories are meant to last forever.
I imagine her at the Italian restaurant, when Oliver and I were celebrating our engagement. She was the only person capable of looking beyond the glamour and celebration to see what I was feeling. Fear. Uncertainty. Perhaps the first time my instincts had reared their all-seeing heads.
Normally, I look back on that memory with shame, anger at myself for falling so easily into Oliver’s ruse.
Now, I’m grateful to have had at least one friend who could see the real me. A friend who was willing to communicate about my feelings.
I remember the look on Marlowe’s face after she crashed into the cobblestones. The panic in her eyes. The betrayal. I witnessed her last breath, and I’m afraid that image will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I raise my arms, unfurling the blanket. The fabric dances in front of me as I gently lay it over Marlowe, concealing the look on her face forevermore.
The blanket doesn’t cover her completely, her limbs protruding from beneath the fabric. The morbid scene is disturbing. I do my best to tuck her exposed arms beneath the blanket, reclaiming a fraction of her dignity.
As I’m pulling her far arm closer to me, I notice her hand. She grasps something, the object tangled around her fingers. I stand, moving to her other side, and take a closer look.
When I see what she’s holding, I gasp, stumbling away from Marlowe as though what’s appearing before me can’t be true. Can’t be real. My heartbeat thunders inside my chest.
I stare at the house, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that her killer is inside.