“It’s not good to focus on the difficult parts of her life,” she said, mostly to herself. “We’re here to celebrate the happy parts. And there were many. Before him.”
“Danielle was kind to me,” I said. “Confident.”
“I appreciate you coming, but no need to stay.” She squeezed my hand, turning to look outside the open church doors at the heavy light pouring in. “Better to enjoy a beautiful day like this while you still can. It all goes by so quickly.”
With that, she took a step forward, walking between the pews towardthe front of the church, where her daughter’s body lay. I couldn’t help thinking of a parent escorting their child down the aisle for a very different reason. A wedding. A symbol for new beginnings.
I envisioned this woman walking Danielle down the same aisle to meet Oliver, just as I planned for Marmee to walk alongside me in a couple months’ time. A shiver ran through me.
Nothing Oliver had told me about Danielle—their divorce, her death—lined up with what the grieving mother had to say.
Why would Oliver lie to me?
23
Friday: The Night of the Party
The guests are crammedinside the parlor. Constance is hunched over inspecting her injured foot, which is wrapped and taped with bandages. Ava rubs soothing circles across her back, but she’s clearly struggling, too. Her makeup is smudged, an irritated flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.
Damien slumps at the bar studying his drink. Preston sits in a forest green lounger, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace.
He stands as soon as I enter the room. “Did you talk to Evelyn?”
“Marmee no longer has a car,” I say. “The only vehicles inside the garage are golf carts used for landscaping.”
“What about phones?” Ava asks.
“Mrs. Wilson has a landline at her cottage.”
“Who is Mrs. Wilson?” Damien asks. His questions diminish the urgency of the situation, highlight just how misplaced he is here in the wake of Marlowe’s absence.
“Marmee’s house manager,” I say, drumming my fingers against the back of my neck. “She lives in the cottage by the front entrance.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” Preston asks.
“About five minutes by golf cart,” I say.
Constance reclines, fidgety hands caressing her stomach. “I can’t go anywhere. My foot is killing me.”
“Someone stay back with her,” I say. We shouldn’t split up at all in a situation like this, but if Constance is too injured to join us, leaving her with a chaperone is the next best option. No one should be alone. Not until we find out who pushed Marlowe. “The rest of us will go.”
“I’ll stay,” Preston says.
“So, it’s the three of us?” Ava says, looking between Damien and me.
“Why do I have to go?” Damien asks. He takes a lazy sip of his drink. Liquid dribbles down his chin.
“You’re comfortable sending two women off on their own?”
In any other situation, I’d deem Preston’s comment misogynistic. In this scenario, it makes me question Damien’s motives. All of us are determined to find help. Why isn’t he?
“Fine, but let’s hurry,” he says, clacking his drink against the bar. Liquid trickles down the side of his glass, pools atop the marble counter. “I’ll be outside.”
Preston cuts his eyes at Damien walking out the front door before looking back at me. “Will the two of you be okay with him?”
“Two against one,” Ava says as she rises. She gives Preston a peck on the cheek.
“Maybe it would be best for him to stay back,” he says. “We don’t know him.”
