Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Henry paced the living room, barking into the phone, his shoes thudding over the patterned rug. He’d been dialing law offices since the detectives left. When he finally hung up, he’d secured a top New York lawyer, already en route to Poughkeepsie.
Marlowe stood frozen until Henry turned to her, and she dropped into an armchair, fingers gripping the edge of the floral brocade.
“What happened to Nora?” she asked.
Henry sighed and raked his hair back. “I’ve always wanted to tell you.”
“Then tell me now.”
“I don’t know what happened to her.” Henry lifted his hands to reveal his palms, helpless. “But Enzo, he used to walk at night. Sometimes he’d go out, just to keep an eye on things. And he knew about the man in the woods.”
“Mr. Babel?”
“No, not Mr. Babel.” Henry sank onto the couch across from her. “That was a story. This man was real.”
“You saw him?”
“Glimpses,” Henry said. “I never spoke to him.”
Marlowe shook her head.
“There’s a house in the woods. Past that rusty car. If you follow the old stone wall. I know you never walked that far. It was old and run-down, but someone was living in it back then. Nate and I found it and poked around. I know someone was living there.”
“And what about Enzo?”
“He knew, and it made him nervous. Like the bear,” Henry said. “He was worried about us, so he took walks at night. Just to keep an eye out.”
It sounded like a story spun too many times, but Henry seemed to believe every word of it, and she felt a pang of sadness as she watched him lose his grip.
“I told Brierley about the man,” Henry continued. “I told him. But he thought I was making it up. Enzo said they’d never believe me. So I shut up. It only made us look worse.”
The hired help, their protector, with his charming accent and warm smile. Enzo told Marlowe to drink the whiskey, so she drank it. And Enzo told Henry to keep quiet, so he did it.
“So you think this man took Nora?”
“I don’t know. I never knew. But it wasn’t us. It wasn’t Enzo.”
“They think it was.”
“Of course they do,” Henry scoffed. “They want a clean ending. Villains in a big house. It makes a good story.”
“They arrested him, Henry.” Marlowe rose to her feet. “They must have something.”
“Circumstantial,” he snapped. “The boots, the bracelet. It’s thin.
They can’t charge him on that. Enzo will have a lawyer with him soon.
I can’t even venture a guess as to why they want to talk to Nate again.
This is basically harassment. But Nate’s gone willingly to answer their questions, and he can leave at any time.
They won’t get anything out of either of them. ”
“But is there something? Something you don’t know.”
Henry was silent, his head falling. “I don’t know. Maybe Nate or Enzo hid something from me. But they’re family. And I’d never believe they were responsible for this.”
His curly hair fell over his forehead, like a sheep’s wool hanging over its brow. Finally, he stood up. “They can hold him for twenty-four hours. I need to be there when he gets out.”
“I’m going with you.” Stephanie emerged from the kitchen, clutching her phone and her coat. “Frank and Glory are on their way home.”
In an instant, they were gone, and Marlowe was left with her own spiraling thoughts. Henry was loyal. That was why he had swallowed the story of a man in the woods—hook, line, and sinker. That was why he was driving to Poughkeepsie to catch Enzo when he stumbled out of the questioning room.
If what Henry said was true, then someone else was out there. The decision came sharply to her. Heart pounding, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. One way or another, she needed to see that house. She needed to see if Henry’s story held any truth.
Her breath clouded the air as she cut through the apple orchard, boots crunching over the brittle crust of snow.
By the time she cleared the orchard and was past the bottom of the North Field, she was winded but didn’t stop.
A narrow path snaked into the woods, steep and uneven, carved with streams and hidden roots.
The incline would take her to the main stone wall in twenty minutes, then another trek along it would bring her to the rusted car.
Uphill. No path once she had to follow the wall, just snow-covered brambles and rocks.
She checked the time: just past two. Not long before sunset.
Marlowe’s legs ached, and her lungs were raw.
She always prided herself on not obsessing over exercise like her sisters-in-law, but now her lack of cardio was punishing her.
Stephanie could probably sprint this path.
Breath came in short, shallow gasps, and her thighs burned as she pushed up the slope and reached the first stone wall, the one they had scavenged rocks for all summer.
A right turn would take her to the top of the North Field and then to another path that intersected with the woods just up the road from the Gray House.
That was the route Nate used for the wheelbarrow loaded with stones, hauling them across the street, behind the cow pasture, and straight toward the Flats.
Not an easy distance, but Nate was strong, with toned arms and long legs.
Only Marlowe was delusional enough to think Nora hadn’t noticed.
Marlowe veered left, toward the wall that crawled deeper into the woods, higher up the ridge. Prickers from overgrown bushes clawed at her coat as she climbed. There was a time when it felt like a short distance, but now it seemed to drag on interminably.
When she reached the split in the wall, where one branch of it veered deeper into the trees, she paused.
The snow thinned under the forest canopy, but the wall was harder to see now.
She gazed down the line and saw that in some places, the stones had completely disappeared.
The trees watched her as she scanned the path ahead.
Somewhere beyond that wall was the car. And past that, the house.
She thought of Enzo slumped in a rigid chair in Poughkeepsie, desperately confused.
Nate would be sitting with his arms crossed, leveling the detectives with a bland stare.
If he knew anything, it would remain locked deep inside him.
But Enzo? He’d crumble under the pressure.
If he knew anything, he might let it slip without even realizing.
Marlowe stumbled over a root and caught herself against the wall.
Again, she was struck with the thought that her memory was failing her.
Was this really the way to the car? Or maybe she’d evinced an astounding lack of curiosity, a desire to never leave her safe harbor so strong she had erased the route from her mind.
Then she saw it—the rusted car, blackened and rising from the patches of snow.
It didn’t seem to have aged a day since she last saw it, though the forest had filled in around it. The wheels were buried now, swallowed by dirt and snow and debris.
She circled the hood, hands brushing the cold, dented metal. In the summer sun, she and Nora had once crammed into the front seat, laughing.
Past the car. That was what Henry had said.
Marlowe checked her watch again: nearly three thirty now.
She had to move quickly. The trail beyond the car was barely visible, but she followed it.
The incline decreased to a gentle slope for a while, and then, tucked between two pine trees, a roof sagging under the weight of the latest snowfall, and the lichen-covered siding of a house.
The cottage was small, only one story, its front door hanging off the hinges.
The windows were smashed; jagged shards of glass gleamed in the fading afternoon light.
How was it possible she’d never come across the house before?
She thought she’d explored every inch of this land, or perhaps that was the hubris of youth.
Somewhere far away and out of sight, the sun was sinking fast. The top of a narrow brick chimney had crumbled, and bricks were scattered on the ground. The place looked deserted, but someone had lived there once. There must have been an old dirt road leading to it ages ago.
Marlowe stepped closer and all went quiet around her. She told herself nothing within the house could shock her—even if there was a bear or a body or Nora herself sitting cross-legged.
The door creaked as she pushed it open and she sucked in a breath.
The floorboards had been torn out, revealing a sunken pit filled with stacks of old newspapers, neatly tied in bundles, arranged like someone had been preserving them.
They filled every inch of the space, from where she stood in the doorway over to the crumbling stone fireplace.
She crouched at the nearest pile and brushed away dust, squinting at the faded ink. April 2004. Years after Nora disappeared. Someone had placed them here long after the search ended—someone who was living in the house. Or hiding.
A creak echoed from the sagging roof, then the scurrying of small paws. It couldn’t have been anything larger than a raccoon, but Marlowe bolted anyway, down the slope and back toward the stone wall. Her feet slipped on snow and leaves, branches slapping at her arms, as she scrambled past the car.
As she reached the familiar path and the intersection with the first stone wall, she slowed, gasping for breath, hands on her knees. The woods had dimmed into a fragile twilight. Soon it would be pitch black. But she knew this wall. She had picked over every inch for days on end. It was hers.
And then—a sound. A sharp rustle, leaves crunching under deliberate footsteps. Too heavy to be an animal. Marlowe whirled around, her heart in her throat. A figure stepped out from the trees. She could see the edge of a brown jacket and heavy boots.
“Who’s there?” Marlowe stumbled backward and tripped, falling onto her backside.
She pushed herself up into a squat, and then the man was on her, in a blur of movement. She kicked, clawed, but she was pinned beneath a massive torso, his weight crushing her into the dirt. His breath was hot, reeking of beer, his face wild and flushed.
“Where is she?” he snarled.
Marlowe’s vision blurred with tears, but his voice was clear as day. “I don’t know, Damen—I swear.”
Damen Miller shook her, and her head slammed against the ground. Pain shot through her skull. A rock was digging into her back, and she was pinned to the ground again.
“I always knew,” he growled. “Everyone said it wasn’t your family, but I knew. I knew it was you.”
Tears poured from the corners of his eyes as he held her wrists tighter. Marlowe gasped, chest heaving, panic rising like a cresting wave. She had to get free.
She bucked her hips upward and managed to drive her knee into his stomach. He grunted and loosened his hold just enough. Marlowe twisted out from under him, scrambling on her hands and knees, but he grabbed her coat and yanked her backward.
“Please, Mr. Miller,” she sobbed.
He froze. Marlowe sucked in a quivering breath and pulled away. He let her go this time.
That name. “Mr. Miller.” Just as she’d called him as a kid. Nora’s dad. The man who used to drive them to the diner, who bought them ice cream at the county fair.
His hands trembled and he crumpled to his knees, eyes widened in horror at what he had done.
Marlowe pulled herself to her feet and staggered a few steps away.
When she looked back, Damen Miller’s shoulders had deflated.
His gray hair was mussed, and he looked like he didn’t have the energy to stand up. Marlowe was tempted to go help him.
“Go home,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone about this.”
Damen didn’t seem to hear her. He just buried his face in his hands and wept.
Marlowe turned and ran down the slope, back toward the orchard.
The sun had set by the time she emerged from the woods.
She brushed the frost and leaves off her coat and pulled twigs out of her hair, but her jeans had mud stains on them.
The Gray House glowed in the distance, each window a perfect square of warm light, illuminating the kitchen, the hearth, the Christmas tree.
It was a sanctuary. A haven. She stumbled forward, heart still pounding, tears hot on her cheeks, and ran for home.