Constance grumbles at the suggestion. “Opal would never do something like this.”
“I’m only saying she was here. The rest of us don’t know anything about her,” he says. “I mean, how well do you know her?”
Constance braces to respond, but I raise my hands to stop her.
“I was outside when Opal left. She was gone before Marlowe fell.”For the sake of future argument, I add, “And Mrs. Wilson had already left, too.”
“Again,” Damien says, “how did no one hear the struggle?”
“It’s the house. The movie playing inside the cinema would have blocked out the sound, especially if everyone was scattered.”
If.Someone here must be lying about where they were, I admit, even though it leaves me oily with shame. The others must weigh similar possibilities. The collective attitude shifts from curiosity to grief to panic as the finality of the situation sinks in.
Marlowe is dead. Someone murdered her.
“This can’t be happening.” Ava is on the verge of hyperventilating, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
The men stew in silence. Preston inspects the balcony as Damien wanders around the rest of the room, seemingly looking for more evidence.
Constance, still huddled by the balcony, begins to cry. “I have to get out of this room.”
She stumbles backward toward the door, but her heel catches the lip of the coffee table, causing her to trip. The side of her body crashes to the floor, and she whines in pain.
“Fuck!”
“Constance!” Ava almost falls rushing toward her.
“Are you hurt?” I lean over her, inspecting her body for injury.
“My foot,” she moans, struggling to stretch past her swollen stomach to reach it.
A shard of glass has slipped beneath the strap of one of her Mary Janes. She kicks off her shoe to examine the cut. The sliver is about two inches wide, puncturing the arch of her foot. Without waiting, she plucks the glass free from her flesh. Bright red blood trickles from the wound.
“Great,” Damien says, already on his knees to help her up. “This is exactly what we need.”
“We’re all under stress. Let’s just take a second to think.” Preston bends down on her other side, helping her stand. He looks to Damien. “You can wrap this up, right?”
“I’ll need gauze. Probably some alcohol in case of infection.”
“There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen,” I say.
“On it,” Ava says, rushing past me.
“We should stay downstairs until we figure out what to do,” I say. I look to Constance. “Are you okay?”
She nods, but her cheeks are flushed with fresh pain. She leans on Preston and Damien as they make cautious strides toward the hallway, slowly descending the stairs.
“Get her settled in the parlor,” I tell them. “I’ll be down as soon as I talk to Marmee.”
I turn to head toward her bedroom when a distant but menacing sound grabs my attention. A blend of shrieking, high-pitched strings. My heart thunders in my chest as I rush forward, the sharp notes stabbing my ears.
It’s coming from the cinema. I enter the room to seePsychois still playing. Norman Bates, dressed as his mother, is attacking private investigator Milton Arbogast, sending the detective stumbling down the staircase. I’ve watched this scene dozens of times, but now it feels personal, taunting. The music is as haunting and unsettling as ever, maybe even more so now, in the wake of tragedy.
I flick on the lights and switch off the projector, then pull the heavy door closed behind me.
Tippi’s Takes Presents:
What Hitch Taught Me About Life
