“Tippi, these are your friends. Who do you think pushed her?”
It’s an unsettling thought. Who exactly am I accusing of the unthinkable? Of murdering Marlowe? The only people inside the house when she fell, besides Marmee herself, were Ava, Constance, Preston, and Damien. I’ve known most of them for almost two decades. They were best friends with Marlowe, just as they are with me. It has to be Damien.
“Marlowe invited a guest tonight. Her new boyfriend. I can’t prove it, but it must have been him. No one else would have a reason to want to hurt Marlowe.”
“And he would?”
“They were arguing earlier in the night,” I say. “She said he was the jealous type.”
Or maybe there’s another motive at play. One I’m not yet ready to admit.
I clear my throat, trying to remain focused. “Could we drive one of the cars in the garage into town?”
“The garage only has golf carts and landscape machinery, which won’t get you far. I sold my car ages ago. Mrs. Wilson has her car when she’s here if I need to go into town, but she has left for the weekend.”
Likewise, I’d sold my own car before leaving the city. Figured there was no point in having it due to my upcoming travel plans. All the guests arrived via drivers and Ubers, but I was hoping Marmee had access to at least one vehicle.
I exhale, desperation weighing heavy on my chest.
“We need to call for help. If there’s a way to contact the police, a landline, an internet connection, I need you to tell me.”
Marmee thinks, her thin lips leveling into a flat line. For years, she’s prided herself on being cut off from the rest of the world. Now, that same anonymity poses a threat to all of us. Her eyes go wide again, her next suggestion a glint of light in the darkness.
“Mrs. Wilson has a landline in her cottage.”
I stand quickly, the possibility of a plan jolting me with adrenaline. “How do I get inside?”
“There should be a key hidden in a fake rock beside the front door,” she says. “You know the type. Same ones you’d play with as a child.”
In my youth, I considered the hide-a-keys scattered around the property the most inventive devices ever. Funny how happy memories resurface even during the most traumatic of times.
“I can call the police from there.”
Marmee extends her hand, her bony grip tight around my wrist. “Tippi, are you sure?”
Her expression is sensitive and sympathetic, but the question she asks is weighted with unease, as if she’s asking about more than my actions in this moment. Digging deeper. I dismiss my paranoia.
“Marlowe is dead,” I say. “I don’t have a choice.”
The police need to investigate what happened here. And if my fears are proved right, and Marlowe’s death wasn’t accidental, then someone at this house is responsible. They deserve punishment.
“Take the golf cart,” Marmee says, already refocused on the plan of action. She leans forward in her chair, reaching for her crow cane with the emerald eye. “I can go with you.”
“No. I want you to stay here,” I say. “I need to know you’re safe.”
My stomach tightens when I think of Oliver’s messages. Is there another possibility I’m failing to consider? Could someone else be on the grounds? My gaze lands on the open balcony door.
“Why is the door open again?”
“I opened it,” she says. “It’s easier for me to sleep when I can feel the breeze.”
I stare at the sliver of darkness, the silvery hue of the moon reflected in the glass. My imagination runs wild with possibilities of what might be lurking out there in the dark. Who might be lurking. Crossing the room, I close the door again and lower the latch. For a moment, I’m transfixed by my own reflection framed in the shadowy distortions from outside.
“The golf cart keys are in the kitchen,” Marmee reminds me, her gentle guidance restoring my sense of urgency.
“I’m locking your bedroom door,” I warn her before I leave. “Only open it for me.”
Tippi’s Takes Presents:
