12 Marley
Marley
“Marley! Oh my God! Marley! Wake up! Wake up!”
The bed shook beneath Marley’s back. She sat up straight, and her skull nearly collided with Suzy’s.
She felt drool on her chin and quickly swiped it away.
Was someone screaming? She blinked toward the window, disoriented, and saw nothing but rain and clouds.
The wind howled. Marshall was not in the bed.
In fact, his side of the bed looked like it hadn’t been touched.
“Oh my God, Marley!”
Suzy flung her arms around her neck. She was soaking wet, the Nantucket sweatshirt she’d thrown on over her nightgown cold and sloppy on Marley’s neck. A puddle slowly spread beneath her ass on the bedspread. Outside the open door to the hallway, Wintour yapped like mad.
“Suzy. What the hell?” Marley recoiled, shoving her friend off her, the shock of the cold and wet waking her fully. “Why are you soaked?”
“It’s Lincoln.” Suzy was crying so hard she could barely pull in a full breath. She’d clearly passed out in full makeup because her face was like a clown mask of running mascara and eyeliner and lip color.
“What about Lincoln?” Marley asked.
“We found him in the pool. Floating . . . Marley . . . we tried to revive him but—”
Cold dread trickled down Marley’s spine. She glanced at the garbage can on the floor, the oozy bile splatter at the bottom. The untouched glass of ginger ale Marshall had promised had sweat a wet ring on the coaster. A blast of raindrops spattered the window like rapid gunfire.
“But what? Suzy! What?”
“Lincoln’s dead.”