“I know I won’t,” I said, resting my forehead against his.
I had no idea then how wrong I was.
19
Friday: The Night of the Party
The atmosphere inside theparlor feels altered, as though even the house can tell one of us is missing. Or perhaps it’s picked up on something else. That there’s a murderer in our midst.
An accidental fall from one of the balconies is unlikely, if not impossible.
Aside from Marmee, the only people inside the house are right in front of me. Constance sits closest to the fire, the dancing flames accentuating her tear-marked cheeks. Ava sits beside her. Preston walks across the room, making himself a stout drink at the bar. Damien stands in the corner, almost catatonic.
One of them killed her.
I refuse to believe one of my closest friends—Ava, Constance, or Preston—would be capable. They loved Marlowe as much as I did, have years of memories and loyalty attached to her. My eyes linger over Damien. A stranger, an outsider.
“Marlowe’s death wasn’t an accident,” I say, incapable of ignoring the conversation any longer. “Someone pushed her.”
“Pushed?” Constance nearly chokes on the word.
“That’s an extreme accusation, Tippi,” Preston says. “It could be an accidental fall. Or maybe she jumped.”
“Really, Preston?” Ava says, disgusted.
“It’s a possibility.” He shrugs. “We don’t know what was going through her head.”
“Marlowe wouldn’t have killed herself,” Ava says.
“Nothing suggests she was suicidal,” I add.
“Listen to what you’re saying,” Preston says, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince his wife or me. “You’re suggesting one of us is a murderer?”
“Let’s take a look ourselves.” I force myself not to look at Damien. “We can investigate the library together.”
“What’s the point in that?” Damien asks.
“Something up there might give us more information. From where I stood outside, I don’t see how she could have fallen.”
When I was in the library earlier, I stumbled upon Oliver’s note, an unsettling discovery in its own right. Being there gave me time to look around. I even latched the balcony door shut after I saw it open. I’ll notice if anything has changed since I was last there.
One by one, the others follow me upstairs, possessed by the morbid curiosity one feels when passing an accident on the highway. You don’t want to see but can’t look away. There must be a small part in each of us hoping her fall was an accident, that something upstairs will prove it.
That seed of hope disappears once we enter the library.
Most elements are the same: books lining the stacked shelves, the neatly organized desk, the large globe that doubles as a decanter station in the corner. It’s not until I walk across the room, past the center coffee table and upholstered armchairs, that I see the destruction.
A small table beside the balcony door has been knocked over. The vibrant vase which sat on its surface is broken, a puddle of water on the floor. Leaves and stems are ground into the carpet.
“What the hell happened in here?” Preston is the first to speak. Everyone else wanders around the room in quiet disbelief.
Next, I inspect the balcony. The French doors remain open, two of the panes shattered. Clusters of glass litter the carpet, a few larger piecesbroken into more threatening shapes. From the looks of it, Marlowe wasn’t just pushed off the balcony, but possibly onto it.
I tiptoe around the area, careful to avoid the larger pieces as I step outside.
“Be careful,” Constance says, calling after me.
“I’ll be fine.”
