“What if it’s not?” Constance sits up straighter, engages everyone in the room. “Earlier in the night, Tippi received a card. From Oliver.”
“That asshole reached out to you on your birthday?” Ava turns to face me, the fireplace backdrop framing her with a radiant, ethereal glow.
“It didn’t come in the mail. There was no postmark,” Constance says. “It was just sitting there like someone placed it.”
“Are you suggesting Oliver is here?” Preston’s question seems directed toward Constance.
“No,” I say, but everyone is talking at once, drowning out my voice.
Damien, still behind the bar, halts mid-sip to ask, “Who’s Oliver?”
“My ex,” I say, convinced he already knows the answer.
“He might have been here this whole time?” Damien seems motivated by the idea. “You accused us of pushing Marlowe without ever mentioning another person could be here.”
“It was just a card,” I insist, watching him closely. “Oliver isn’t here.”
“Maybe he came by earlier to deliver the card and decided to stick around,” Constance says.
“He wouldn’t have a reason to hurt Marlowe,” I say.
The room falls silent again.
“Why didn’t you say anything about Oliver earlier?” Ava asks.
“Because it means nothing. It’s a red herring,” I say. “I don’t know how the card got here, but it’s not related to what happened to Marlowe. Oliver isn’t here.”
I say this to shut everyone up, even though I’ve been arguing against this logic with myself all night. Oliver’s messages could be connected to what happened, I just don’t understand the correlation yet.
“We should tell the police about the notes when they arrive,” Preston says. “They can take it from there.”
Their voices swirl around me, reigniting my frustration. Heat spreads through my chest, my arms beginning to tingle. When I clench my hands into fists, sweat glazes my palms.
“We are the only ones here,” I say. “That’s what we need to tell the police.”
“You have to at least consider it, especially if Oliver delivered a card tonight,” Ava says. “I mean, think of everything that’s happened. You called off the wedding. He must have tons of animosity.”
“Against me. Not Marlowe,” I say. “Besides, Oliver is gone. He doesn’t live here anymore. Remember?”
“Did you see him leave?” Preston says. “I mean, he told you he was leaving town. That doesn’t mean he did.”
An astonished smile spreads across my face as I exhale. “This is ridiculous.”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous to me,” Damien says. His comment infuriates me.
“We all know the only reason everyone made a big deal about this party is because they feel sorry for me. Our best friend just died! And now you all can’t stop talking about my ex!”
I trudge to the bar and pour a stiff drink. The alcohol stinging my throat is refreshing, and I immediately pour another.
Ava steps forward, places a hand on my shoulder.
“No one is trying to upset you, Tippi,” she says. “We want to know what happened to Marlowe as much as you do.”
“If there’s a possibility Oliver is on the grounds,” Constance continues, “we need to mention it to the police.”
I finish the rest of my drink in one gulp and leave the empty glass on the bar. I make my way to the staircase and begin climbing. I need to get away from them. This evening is spiraling, friends turning against friends, wild accusations dizzying us all. And now Oliver has been brought into the mix. They think he could be here. That he might have somehow gotten into the house when no one was looking and pushed Marlowe.
I walk to the end of the hallway and enter my bedroom, making a beeline for the connected bathroom. I slam the door behind me. Only then do I have the space to think, the space to breathe and contemplate the gravity of what they’re suggesting. With each passing moment, each new discovery, it’s becoming more obvious there’s no easy escape.
