Chapter 25
Friday: The Night of the Party
The breeze rustles my hair on the drive back, the rumbling of the cart’s engine in competition with whistling crickets and whining cicadas. Ava and Damien remain quiet. Perhaps calling the police, knowing help is on the way, has ushered in a sense of calm. Resolution. This nightmare is almost over.
I, on the other hand, feel like it will never end.
Opal’s tarot reading flashes through my mind again: skeletons and fire and death, past intermingling with the present, an unshakable premonition of more destruction to come.
Oliver’s messages must mean something, must serve some purpose, and I can’t stop thinking that they’re somehow connected to what happened to Marlowe.
The open gates at the estate’s entrance unsettle me. Maybe there is someone else on the property after all, someone besides the six of us cooped up inside the house. The idea shivers through me, prompting me to scan the darkened landscape.
“There’s a lake nearby,” Damien says. He’s practically yelling so I can hear him over the engine.
“What about it?”
“If we can’t leave by car, maybe we could take a boat.”
“It’s really more of a pond,” I say, that same shiver spreading throughout my body. “We won’t get very far.”
“Might be worth a try,” Damien says. “I mean, better than sitting here waiting.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Damien staring at me.
Startled, I yank the steering wheel to keep the cart from careening into the grass.
Ava grips the canopy overhead and grunts as I weave back onto the road.
I can still feel his eyes studying me, as if he’s watching for my reaction to his brilliant idea.
Why would he even mention the pond? We haven’t passed it, and even if we did, it’s so dark he wouldn’t see it.
“If you want to spend the rest of the night rowing, have at it,” I say. “The police told us to stay put.”
Brakes screech as I put the cart into park beneath the stone awning. I stand immediately, desperate to get back inside. Damien remains seated, staring at the crow fountain beside us.
“That’s an odd choice for decoration,” he says, staring at the murder of crows climbing into the sky.
“My grandmother has always liked them,” I say. “Birds and flowers. Those are her favorites.”
“Crows symbolize death,” Damien continues. His comment is irritating. Probing.
“In some cultures, they represent good luck,” Ava counters. She’s still seated, too, staring off into the darkness with helpless eyes.
“What culture is that?” Damien asks, but his question is interrupted by a stream of light bursting from the open front door. Preston appears.
“I need you guys inside,” he says, the ends of his hair protruding as though he’s been pulling at it. “Constance is freaking out.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“She keeps crying, and she’s breathing all heavy. I mean, she’s not due to have the baby this soon, right?”
“Not until July,” Ava says, stepping off the cart.
“I tried talking to her, but…” His words fall off and he raises his hands in the air, totally unprepared for the hysterics of a pregnant woman.
We charge past him, Damien only a few steps behind us.
Inside the parlor, Constance fidgets on the sofa. Her breaths are raspy and ragged. Every few seconds, her body trembles with a sob, like a child who has woken from a nightmare. Her jaw is clenched tight, as though she’s trying not to wince in pain.
“Is your foot hurting that much?” I ask.
Ava rubs Constance’s shoulders. She looks at Damien. “Maybe there’s something she can take for the pain?”
He shrugs. “The cut isn’t that deep.”
“Says the person who isn’t bleeding,” Preston says. “She’s hurting. Surely you can do something.”
Inside, I’m screaming for Damien to do something, offer some kind of reassurance, but he is completely useless. I brush past him and sit beside Constance on the sofa, place my hand over her trembling fingers. “What can we do?”
“It’s not my foot. I’m worried about my fall,” she says, her voice shaking. “Do you think the baby is okay?”
“I’m sure the baby is fine,” I say, even though I know little about pregnancy. The most information I’ve received in one sitting was when I accompanied her to that first appointment.
“What if I fell at the wrong angle? This far along, one misstep could cause a miscarriage.” She starts breathing more rapidly. “And stress isn’t good for pregnancy.”
“Come on, man. You’re a doctor,” Preston says to Damien. “Do something.”
Damien sighs and shakes his head. A slick of fresh sweat glistens along his hairline. “There’s no way to tell without a formal ultrasound, but I’m sure you’re fine. Not everything is like you see it on television.”
I shoot him a glare. “Nice bedside manner.”
“You asked for reassurance, that’s the best I can give.” He saunters over to the bar, retrieves the same glass he had before we left for Mrs. Wilson’s cottage. “Time for another drink.”
Ava flicks her retro curls over one shoulder, positions her body to better face Constance. When she speaks, her voice is far gentler and kinder than anything Damien had to say. “Have you felt the baby move?”
“I don’t know.” Constance’s breaths hasten again, on the verge of hyperventilation. “I’m freaking out.”
“Breathe. Try to calm down.” Ava places her hands on Constance’s stomach. “The baby can feel when you’re upset.”
Constance inhales through her nose, exhales from her mouth.
She’s prone to catastrophizing when she’s stressed.
In college, she’d sail through each semester then have an epic crashout during finals, convinced she wasn’t prepared.
When we were in Spain, she nearly hurled her drink at a bartender because of a dispute over an inaccurate tab.
If something doesn’t go as expected, she slips into panic mode, and I know she wants a healthy baby more than anything.
Several seconds later, Constance’s eyes bulge with enthusiasm. “Did you feel that?”
Ava, her hands still pressed against Constance’s midsection, nods. “See? Everything is fine.”
The relief washing over Constance is instant.
I’m surprised that out of everyone in the room, Ava was the one to calm her.
Usually it would be me, or Marlowe. It’s a strangely maternal side of my friend I’ve rarely seen, and my heart aches knowing she’s yet to give this kind of love to a child of her own.
“I worry I’m not going to be good at this,” Constance says, eyes fixed on her stomach. The confession is quick and unexpected; I wonder if she meant to speak it aloud. When she looks up, fresh tears shimmer in her eyes.
“You’ll be a great mother,” I say.
“And you have us to help,” Ava says.
A pang of sadness washes over the heartwarming moment as I remember Marlowe is no longer here to experience life with us. She will never get to meet Constance’s child, never help pick a name or hold the infant in her arms. Fate is cruel and unfair and soul-clenching.
“I’m glad you’ve calmed down, Constance, and I’m sorry to interrupt,” Preston says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but did you find a phone?”
“Yes.” Ava stands and wanders to the fireplace. “It’ll take over an hour for the police to arrive.”
“Thanks to Tippi,” Damien says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I stand, take a step toward him.
He sips from his drink before answering. “We heard the conversation with the 911 operator. Your side of it, at least. You never told them she was pushed.”
My cheeks flush as my bottom lip begins to quiver. “It wouldn’t have mattered. There’s an emergency in town. It will take time for them to get here.”
“You’re the one who insisted her death wasn’t an accident, then you tell the police that she fell,” Damien says. His clenched fist pounds against the bar top. “They’d come faster if they thought foul play was involved.”
That’s precisely why I didn’t mention it to the police.
“I…I don’t know. I was just trying to answer the operator’s questions.”
“They’re sending someone, right? That’s all that matters,” Preston says, but he doesn’t sound as impassioned as he did a few minutes ago when he was defending Constance. It’s possible he agrees with Damien but doesn’t want to admit it.
“It’s not Tippi’s job to tell the police how to run their investigation,” Constance says.
“When the police arrive, they’ll see the banister. They’ll see the library,” Ava adds, crossing her arms. “They’ll figure it out.”
“What else did the police say?” Constance asks.
“That someone would be here in ninety minutes,” I say. “And for none of us to leave.”
Profound silence fills the room. That order presents a threat to each one of us.
“Yeah. The cops will immediately assume one of us did it.” Damien gulps down the rest of his drink, turning his back to us.
“We’re the only ones here,” Preston says, his voice wary. “That’s an unsettling thought, but it’s the truth.”
Constance squirms in her seat, fighting to sit up straighter. “Maybe we’re not. Someone else could be here.” She locks eyes with me. “You need to tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
At first, I’m genuinely confused, then panic rattles through me as I realize exactly what she’s talking about. No, no, no…
Constance sighs. “About the card from Oliver.”