Chapter 45
Ava and I sit on the ledge of the crow fountain watching police shuffle around the scene.
Marmee stands inside the parlor, leaning against her crow cane. An officer questions her about the night’s events, but she provides little information. According to her, she was sound asleep until she heard the gunshots.
Ava, Constance, and I fill in the other details.
We explain that Preston, on the verge of financial ruin and marital disaster, forced me to steal Marmee’s jewelry at gunpoint.
It doesn’t take much convincing. When the police arrived, the open bag of jewels lay next to his body, soaking up his blood.
Constance admitted she shot him, then continued to confess what she did earlier in the night, to Marlowe.
Constance has been wrestling with her guilty conscience for most of the night. I can forgive her for Preston, but never for Marlowe. It was an impulsive action, a crime of passion, but her aggression was taken out on someone who didn’t deserve it. Marlowe was a true friend to all of us, even her.
I only wish she had included us earlier. We might have been able to protect her.
Two officers emerge from the shadowy walking path pulling a gurney behind them.
Damien lies strapped to the cot, his eyes open wide, pupils dilated. Relief spreads through my chest when I see he’s okay.
I spent most of the night thinking Damien was responsible for the blackmail, and even Marlowe’s death.
My fixation was a defense mechanism to conceal that someone I loved was the real culprit.
It’s something I’ve done for years, I realize.
Lying to myself about the people in my life, villainizing some, glorifying others.
Tonight, with all of its bloodshed and deception, has brought clarity.
Straight ahead, Constance slumps inside a police cruiser.
Her hands are shackled behind her back, the door open, giving her some air.
She stares at nothing. Even after everything she’s done, I can’t help mourning our friendship.
A month from now, she’s due to give birth.
Her closest friends—Marlowe, Ava, and me—were meant to be by her side when she welcomed her first child into the world.
Impulsive actions and selfish choices have stripped all that from her. It’s tragic.
Constance raises her head and catches me staring at her. She nods for us to come over. Ava turns, refusing to interact, a final stab at Constance’s ego.
Reluctantly, I approach the cruiser, rotating waves of blue and red shading the dark landscape.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.” Her eyes fill with glistening tears. “To everyone.”
“It was brave of you to confess,” I say. “Marlowe deserves justice.”
“She does,” Constance says, her voice breaking with emotion. Her gaze falls to her swollen stomach. “What’s going to happen to the baby?”
“You’ll make the right choice,” I say.
Our choices define us in life, and even after a series of bad ones, it’s possible to do what’s right.