Chapter 35
The foyer is oppressively warm compared to the evening breeze outside. When the door shuts behind me, it’s like a stone slab covering a tomb, imprisoning me.
Preston approaches me first. He’s been crying, cheeks ruddy, eyes exhausted. “Where have you been?”
“Covering Marlowe.” My voice cracks as though it’s been idle for years, my body struggling to summon the strength it needs to keep going. “Where is everyone?”
“Ava refuses to leave her room. She won’t talk to me.” He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “Constance is still in the parlor. I can’t really deal with her right now.”
Preston’s behavior is nothing short of cowardly. Spineless. The urge to slap him is overwhelming. What did either of my friends ever see in him? How did I consider him a friend, a confidant, for so many years?
“And Damien?”
He shrugs. “No idea.”
Someone should have eyes on Damien at all times. He can’t be trusted. I still need to find a way to confront him before the police arrive, but right now, after what I uncovered outside, this next conversation is more important.
“Could you see if he’s wandering the grounds?” I ask, searching for an excuse to make Preston leave. “I’ll check on Ava.”
He nods, likely grateful for an excuse to escape the heartache he’s caused. You can almost feel the pain and betrayal pulsing in every room, shimmering in the air. Constance calls my name from inside the parlor.
I exhale slowly before entering. She’s still sitting on the sofa, trying to reposition herself to standing.
“Don’t move,” I say. “You should rest your foot.”
“It’s feeling better. The police should be here soon, right?” Her expression changes when she registers the look on my face. “What’s wrong?”
My spine bows as I try to find the stamina to continue. My chest aches when I speak.
“I found this outside,” I say, holding out my shaking hand.
A necklace dangles from my fingers, a narrow moonstone medallion hanging from the end. Constance jumps back, wincing in pain from her foot’s sudden movement.
“That’s mine.” She touches the bare spot on her chest where it had rested earlier in the evening.
“I know.” Tears blur my vision. “I found it in Marlowe’s hand.”
Constance’s face changes. Her beautiful eyes, always seeking answers and meaning, are blank. Her lip trembles as she whispers, “I can explain.”
I clench my eyes shut and turn, trying to maintain control. “You said you were in the bathroom when she fell.”
“I was.” She pauses, her eyes darting from left to right as she tries to decide how much to reveal. Her voice shakes. “As I left, I saw Marlowe heading into the library. I thought it was my chance to talk to her. About everything.”
“The two of you had been fighting ever since the dress fitting,” I say, a knowing sickness writhing inside me.
Marlowe’s strange behavior in recent weeks—dodging calls, refusing to join in on the wedding planning, even the strange conversation we had earlier in the kitchen, about knowing when to leave certain friendships behind—was never about Ava. She was avoiding Constance.
Constance nods, her chin beginning to quiver. Fresh tears roll down her cheeks.
“During the dress fitting, Preston sent me a message. Marlowe heard the notification and picked up my phone, thinking it was hers. She read it. I tried explaining it was a misunderstanding, but Marlowe wasn’t buying it.
You couldn’t get anything past her, you know?
She kept grilling me until I told her the truth.
That Preston and I had been sleeping together for months. ”
I shake my head in disbelief. That one day has been misinterpreted again and again.
Ava assumed Marlowe was making the moment about herself, and snapped at her for it.
Now we know the truth, that Marlowe was never pitying herself or angry with Ava.
She was disgusted by Constance and Preston, had been trying to avoid them ever since.
The very moment Marlowe learned about the affair was the same instant I’d learned about Danielle’s death.
That day sent me on a different path, one that made me obsessed with finding out the truth about Oliver.
I hardly paid attention to my friends that day.
I didn’t care. The chaos in my own world took over.
“What happened when you went into the library?”
“I just wanted to talk to her,” she says, wincing as she remembers. “She’d been ignoring my phone calls for weeks. Refused to meet with me. Half the reason I was so excited about tonight was because I knew she wouldn’t bail on your birthday. I was hoping this was my chance to set things right.
“But Marlowe was even angrier than the last time we’d spoken. Being around all three of us at once—Ava, Preston, and me—was too much. She told me our friendship was over. That she couldn’t surround herself with people that only cared about themselves.”
Constance’s rhythm becomes more rapid, each word falling into the next. She begins rubbing her chest as though to calm herself.
“And then she told me she was going to tell Ava.”
The hard edge of the moonstone medallion presses into my thumb as I squeeze it tighter. “She was trying to be a good friend.”
“I know. Ava would find out eventually, but not this weekend. Not before the baby was born.” She pauses, looks down at her stomach, so blinded by her own desires she’s not even considering how much pain she’s inflicted.
“You think Preston is going to leave Ava once the baby is born?”
“Yes.” She clings to that last shred of confidence. “That’s the plan.”
The plan. Their affair goes far beyond selfish lust. They intend to be together.
Preston is going to leave Ava for one of her closest friends.
He is going to become a parent without her.
Even after I heard him begging for forgiveness in the other room.
The personal malice of his betrayal is almost enough to make me scream.
“Marlowe told me I should tell Ava the truth.” Her voice wavers as the sobs increase. “She said Ava was going to find out this weekend, one way or another. If I wasn’t brave enough to tell her myself, she was going to do it.”
Marlowe meant it. That was why she wrote the letter. She wanted to give Constance one last opportunity to do the right thing, but if she refused to be honest, Marlowe planned on breaking the news. She refused to keep the secret any longer.
“How did Marlowe end up on the balcony?”
“We kept going back and forth, exchanging insults. She was trying to move past me when she knocked the table into the balcony doors. She rushed outside to get away, and I followed her.” Her eyes are beastly, untamed. “Next thing I know, she’s going over the ledge.”
“You pushed her.”
“I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t trying…” Her tone breaks. “I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted her to stop threatening to ruin everything. I was protecting myself.”
Protecting her secrets. Protecting the delicate fantasy she’d constructed.
This delusional world where she and Preston could be together and raise a child without fracturing every relationship along the way.
Marlowe’s death wasn’t an accident or a form of self-protection; the chaotic scene in the library proves that.
Broken glass, overturned table. Marlowe went onto the balcony to run away from her friend, but Constance, fueled by madness and desperation, wouldn’t let her go.
I force myself to look away, the sight of Constance and her delusion too painful.
“I keep going back to that moment in my mind, wishing I’d gone over the ledge instead.” She tries moving closer to me. “I’d trade places with her if I could.”
But she can’t. And Marlowe would never put herself in a position to hurt Constance or anyone else. She would have walked away, moved on. She tried. The inconsolable sorrow Constance has expressed since Marlowe died isn’t because of grief. It’s because of guilt.
Through tears, I manage to say, “I can’t believe it was you.”
The hypocrisy of my words is startling.
Constance and I are both killers. What separates us is the reason behind our deeds. Oliver was a bad person. A manipulator. A murderer.
Marlowe was our friend, and Constance’s actions are unforgivable.
“The police will be here soon,” I say, stumbling to a standing position.
“Are you going to tell the cops?” Constance asks, leaning forward, reaching after me. “Are you going to tell the others?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I mutter as I climb the grand staircase, believing no truer words have ever been spoken.