Chapter Twenty-Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Constance and the baby will be here soon,” Glory announced when Marlowe returned home. “Stephanie and the girls, too,” she added, placing a stack of plates on the kitchen counter. “Pizza for dinner.”
“Not Nate?” Marlowe asked.
“He’s staying in Hartford to work.”
For a split second, Marlowe felt the familiar sting of paranoia.
She was certain Nate was avoiding her. Keeping something closely guarded.
She pushed the thought aside. He didn’t know what she’d been up to: building old Gallagher family trees, flipping through weathered journals, confronting Nora’s ex-boyfriend.
She took a steadying breath and retreated to the basement to calm herself and refocus on what was factual.
The notes sprawled across the table. She stared at them, willing the pieces to connect. Jittery from too much espresso, she took a quick nip from the gin underneath her desk.
Nothing about Sean’s comments suggested that Nora had been pining for Nate.
He said Nora had been obsessed with the entire Fisher clan.
Marlowe considered her part of the family.
If Pete Gallagher had been watching, he might have seen Nora as a Fisher too.
Targeting her would be an attack on the family that had taken everything from him.
A family can’t endure such hardship and remain in the same place. He would have known that.
Frank was right to call Harmon evil for threatening Kat and Dolly.
If he had such violent inclinations, perhaps he got them from his father.
Marlowe thought back to the fascination she’d had with epigenetics when she was considering a graduate degree in anthropology.
The way the brain undergoes constant evolution due to trauma, and how that trauma could be passed down.
The threats Harmon had made, which her family had downplayed, suddenly felt more sinister.
Why had they kept the specifics hidden from her?
If Stephanie had received an email about someone threatening her daughters, she wouldn’t have dismissed it.
And if she had retaliated, wouldn’t she have been justified?
Retaliation would have been out of the question for Constance, whose diminutive stature made her meek and doe-like.
Stephanie, on the other hand, had broken every record in her college’s lacrosse program.
Nate had dragged them to his girlfriend’s games, beaming with pride.
Marlowe had a flash of Stephanie the college girl, with her long ponytail, calf muscles tensing as she sprinted over the grass, arms flexing as she yanked her lacrosse stick back and then hurled it forward.
And Harmon, while broad-shouldered, was no athlete. Marlowe wagered that beneath his hunting jacket, he had a perfectly average physique. He wouldn’t have been able to outrun Stephanie. And if Stephanie had come at him with enough momentum, if she’d picked up a big enough rock …
A door slammed upstairs, pulling Marlowe to the present. High voices and rapid footsteps of the children rose and fell. It sounded like chaos, but it meant they were safe.
Still, the unease clung to her. The theories were just that— stories made up in the absence of truth.
No one was giving her answers. At least Sean had, but she couldn’t shake his cold gaze, looking at her as though she needed to be checked into a mental hospital.
She yanked off her sweater and threw it on the floor in frustration.
Half an hour later, after a few gulps of gin, Marlowe made her way upstairs.
Constance had arrived, and the kids clustered around the table, comparing their letters to Santa.
Marlowe ruffled Kat’s hair and lifted Frankie from his high chair, savoring the baby’s warm weight as he nestled against her shoulder.
Stephanie and Constance rose from their seats to greet Marlowe.
“Henry and your parents went to pick up the pizza,” Constance said. “I’m going to start on a salad.”
Stephanie sat down, and Marlowe took a seat across from her. There were so many things she wanted to ask her, but she aimed for lightness.
“How’s work?”
“Busy,” Stephanie replied, her attention on Kat’s carefully folded letter. “But she’s been my real project lately. Third grade’s keeping us both on our toes.”
“You’ve always been good at juggling it all.”
“Well, you do what you can.” Stephanie’s gaze lifted briefly, her expression unreadable.
“Sometimes it’s hard to keep everything in the air.” Marlowe feared her evasions were apparent to Stephanie now, but she didn’t miss a beat.
“You learn, though. Eventually,” Stephanie said. Her lips curved into her trademark thin and mildly derisive smile.
A delicate pause lingered between them, provoking Marlowe to respond with a pointed comment about what Stephanie might have learned about her husband’s past, but the front door burst open before she could.
“Did you see the news?” Henry’s voice boomed from behind the pizza boxes. He set them down and pulled out his phone.
“What news?” Marlowe jumped up, and Frankie cried at being jostled.
“They made an arrest,” Henry said.
Marlowe traded the baby to Henry for his phone, and he narrated as she read the news article.
“Rick Frasier. The police found bloody clothes at his house—no alibi for the night Harmon was killed. They say it’s solid.”
Gasps filled the room. Glory clasped her hands together, murmuring, “It’s over. Thank the Lord.”
Constance exhaled and clicked her tongue. Stephanie let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief.
Marlowe continued scanning the article. Rick Frasier had been hauled into the station earlier that day. Rick and Harmon had fought over money—a failed business venture of some kind. The details were murky. Rick had loaned Harmon cash, and the fallout was ugly.
“Overwhelming evidence,” Henry said. “He’ll be convicted. Might even plead guilty and take a plea bargain.”
The house buzzed with tentative hope, but Marlowe knew it wasn’t over. It was only beginning.
Ariel must have known they were close to an arrest when they spoke yesterday. She had given Marlowe Brierley’s notes because she had to move fast if she was going to solve both cases. Marlowe set down the phone and accepted a plate that was handed to her.
Ariel wasn’t going to stop, and she couldn’t stop either.