Chapter 36
I float like a phantom down the hallway, wandering with no purpose, no destination.
I’m not sure how any of us will be able to recover from this night.
Marlowe is gone, murdered at the hands of one of our closest friends.
Constance. She’s so far removed from the person I believed she was.
From the person I wanted her to be. All night, I’ve been wanting to blame Marlowe’s death on Damien, an outsider.
The ultimate betrayal is more painful than I could have imagined.
And yet, I’m not only grieving my mischaracterization of Constance. It renews the pain I felt when I first learned of Oliver’s deceit. His deepest betrayal was never about calling off the wedding, or having to admit to my friends I’d been hoodwinked, or even that he was stealing from Marmee.
The biggest pain comes from the fact that despite all those repercussions, I loved him. For weeks, I’ve tried telling myself that because he lied to me, the feelings I developed for him weren’t genuine, but that isn’t true.
The moments between us were real, even if they derived from false pretenses.
My relief in knowing there was someone capable of helping care for Marmee.
The sexual satisfaction I felt whenever our bodies were intertwined.
My exposed vulnerability in admitting to him the complicated truths about my father and family legacy.
All those feelings weren’t erased by his betrayal, and even now, I look back on our relationship with bittersweet longing.
My whole life, I put the possibility of falling for a man like Oliver at arm’s length, but once it happened, I was wholly consumed. I was in love.
What does it say about me that I was able to be tricked by two people in my life? For over a year, I never saw the truth of who Oliver was. Or maybe, when I was confronted with an inconsistency, I chose to look the other way. The comfort of the fantasy was more appealing than my difficult reality.
It was the same with Constance. For years, I wanted to believe we were friends, but maybe Marlowe’s earlier assessment was right.
Maybe there were reasons to walk away from these relationships, but I was too afraid to be honest with myself.
There’s damage in holding on to something for the sake of holding on, squeezing so tightly that it results in suffocation.
I’m forced to confront an even darker truth.
Maybe the reason I was able to connect with people like Oliver and Constance is because there is a part of me that relates to them.
Whatever darkness resides in them also lives in me.
I put on a mask, play a role, but like Oliver, like Constance, I am a killer, defending my actions with a myriad of justifications.
Maybe the truth is I am no better than they are.
Maybe they could see that darkness in me long ago, and it’s what attracted them to me in the first place.
My heart is nothing more than a cracked mirror reflecting the worst parts of myself.
Damien knows what I did to Oliver. When the police arrive, it won’t be to resolve one murder, but two.
For weeks, I’ve been trying to conceal the truth of what I did.
And I almost got away with it. There’s a slim possibility Ava will keep my secret, but Damien?
He’s put too much effort into turning tonight’s blackmail into a game.
The break-in. The threatening letters. That damning photograph.
When I think of being carted away in handcuffs, I’m not sure if I feel desperation or relief. Maybe this is what I deserve.
I’ve been walking in a trance. I find myself standing outside Marmee’s bedroom door. The emotional revelations of the night have left me feeling like the young child that once wandered through these halls, trembling in fear over a nightmare.
I’m relieved to find Marmee sitting in the armchair again. Her face drops the moment she sees me.
“Tippi, what’s wrong now?”
“Everything,” I say, collapsing into the seat beside her, ragged breaths heaving.
“One thing at a time, my dear,” she says, placing her hand over mine. “Tell me.”
I’m no longer able to process everything on my own. I’m unable to carry on the role I’ve been trying to portray. I need someone to see the reality of this situation, no matter how ugly it is.
“Constance pushed Marlowe,” I say, dissolving into intense, shaking sobs.
Marmee recedes in shock. “What?”
“The two of them were arguing,” I say. “Somehow they made it onto the balcony and Marlowe went over the ledge.”
Marmee shakes her head, her bejeweled hand covering her mouth. “What on earth were they arguing about?”
The reveals keep getting worse.
“Constance and Preston were having an affair. He’s the father of her baby,” I say. “And Marlowe was going to tell Ava.”
Marmee’s not some delicate flower. She’s seen things, but even she shakes her head in disbelief, disgust. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “For you and Ava.”
“That’s not all,” I say, desperate for guidance. “I’m afraid I’m going to be in trouble.”
“Trouble? You had nothing to do with Marlowe’s death.”
“I know. I’m afraid I’m going to get in trouble for something I did earlier. To Oliver.”
She gives me a bewildered look. “To Oliver?”
I nod and continue to cry. “I’m sorry, Marmee. I’m so ashamed to admit what I’ve done.”
She squeezes my hand again. “Nothing could change the way I look at you.”
I hope, after what I tell her, that statement remains true. Stagnant air fills my lungs. It was hard enough to admit the truth to Ava. Marmee has loved me my entire life, sacrificed her own desires to raise me as her own. Disappointing her could be the cruelest thing I’ve ever done.
“Oliver and I didn’t break up,” I say, easing into the confession. “It’s more complicated than that.”
She raises a hand, silencing me. “I know that, dear.”
I shake my head. She must be confused. “No, you’re not understanding.”
“Something happened here the night you called off your engagement. Something you’ve been trying to hide.
And I could never judge you for it.” She exhales, as though she’s been keeping what she’s about to say next inside for a long time.
“I think it’s time I tell you the truth about your grandfather. ”