“What about you? Do you like him?” Marlowe nudged her playfully.
Sometimes they used Nora’s pocketknife to carve the names of their crushes on a wooden rafter, like a spell to summon luck, but their crushes never lasted long.
“Maybe.” Nora dabbed the peachy gloss on her bottom lip. “He asked for my number, but I haven’t given it to him yet.”
A slight queasy feeling bubbled in Marlowe’s stomach. She’d felt it before, when a man on the subway had looked at her for too long. Her mother said it was because she was almost thirteen. She didn’t feel ready to flirt with boys. In the fifth grade, she and Nora had vowed they wouldn’t date until high school, because middle school romances were childish and short-lived. Unless Nora had changed her mind.
Marlowe fiddled with the mascara wand and forced a laugh. “Who needs boys when we have each other, anyway?”
SATURDAY
NOVEMBER 24, 2018
SIX
A new tension had bloomed in the house overnight. The coffee had been brewed as usual, and the children were playing as if nothing had changed, but something had. A man had been killed on their property. What’s more, Nora had been evoked, the memory of that horrible night unleashed from its box.
Marlowe went upstairs to get a cup of coffee but quickly excused herself, claiming she had a work deadline. In reality, she spent the entire morning nursing a single cup of coffee while searching the Internet for anything she could find about Harmon Gallagher.
He was twenty-three. His social media pages were already flooded with overwrought comments mourning the tragedy of his death. Marlowe studied his profile picture online—he grinned warmly beneath a camo ball cap, caught mid-laugh at a backyard barbecue. He was broad-shouldered and had a solid build—the kind of person who probably wouldn’t go down easily without a fight …
At last, Marlowe rose from her computer and walked over to the large drafting table in the far corner of the room. Her next project was for a client she had worked with before, who wanted Marlowe’s trademark: whimsical rustic scenes. Friendly animals. Innocent children. In art school, Marlowe had dreamed of gallery shows andgroundbreaking pieces, but it was hard to gain any recognition in the art world. It took guts to break through.
There at the drafting table, she opened her sketchbook to a new page, waiting for the right images to come. She usually felt free to work out her ideas and impressions in this room. She began to outline a face and a wave of untidy hair. She filled the background with dark strokes. A locked room, with only one window. A narrow bed. She returned to the face. Marlowe dropped her pencil when she got to the pointed nose, the delicate eyebrows. She knew whose face she was sketching. And she couldn’t bring herself to continue.
She tore her eyes away from her drawing, casting a glance out the French doors. The morning had already faded to a wintry afternoon. All too soon, the day would dim into evening. Marlowe gave up on the pretense of productivity and headed upstairs, empty coffee mug in hand.
Henry was seated in front of the fire next to Enzo. She crossed into the kitchen and rinsed her mug, placing it carefully in the dishwasher, before joining them.
“Marlowe.” Enzo blinked up at her from behind his thick spectacles. “There you are.”
Enzo pronounced Marlowe’s name the same way he pronounced Merlot, as if he were offering a taste of his favorite wine. His voice had become gravelly over the years, and his speech had slowed, but his Italian accent was as thick as ever and carried the same warmth. It was nice to see him rested and returned to his place in the family room. Stocky and bald except for the squares of silver hair at his temples, he had a bent posture from the many years of hard, honest work he’d provided to their family.
Marlowe gave him a tight-lipped smile as she sat on the hearth, her back to the flames. “Where is everyone?”
“Stephanie and Constance took the kids to that ice-skating rink in Salisbury,” Henry said.
Marlowe nodded absently. That was the plan, she recalled. Of course, everyone was moving as usual.
“Mom went to town for groceries,” Henry said. “Nate and Dad are in the study.”
“Has there been any news?” Marlowe asked.
Henry sighed and closed the book he was reading. “Neighbors have been calling,” he said. “The detectives have visited just about everyone on the road, asking their questions. No one knows anything.”
“Well, I doubt anyone was taking a stroll that far from the road at that hour,” Marlowe said.
“Terrible thing.” Enzo shook his head, and Marlowe watched his pale, sagging skin pull at his neck. He was bundled up in a knit sweater that consumed his shrunken limbs. He had once been able to hoist her and Henry up, one under each arm, and carry them out of the kitchen when they were getting in the way.
He had always seemed to quietly favor Marlowe, or at least it felt that way when she was young. During summers in the country, Enzo told Glory and Frank that their daughter was the responsible child. It embarrassed Marlowe at the time. Being the good girl was tantamount to being a coward.
“They talked to Damen Miller. Charlie saw their car there this morning when he was out walking his dogs, and came by to let us know,” Henry murmured, rubbing his fingers against the woven blanket tossed over the armchair. “Nothing out of the ordinary, though. I’m sure they’re going to have to talk to all the neighbors.”
Henry worked for a blue-chip law firm in Manhattan, but he had done a few years at the DA’s office right out of law school. He knew how these things unfolded. Nora’s father was just another name on the list of locals.
“I hope they don’t upset him,” Marlowe said.
Many years had passed since she’d last spoken to Damen, but she used to visit often, bringing baked goods, and then casseroles when Jennifer got sick. Increasingly, her presence had seemed to distress him. Marlowe understood—she had lost the appearance of the sixteen-year-old girl who was best friends with his daughter. The reality was shocking even to Marlowe, who had never considered what it would be like to mature without Nora by her side. Damen stopped answering her calls altogether after Jennifer passed.
