It was all a lie, and the shame was too much to bear.
And now he’d threatened Marmee.
She was my weak point, my Achilles’ heel. I would do anything to keep her safe, even carry on this ruse with him, but what kind of life would that be? Forever groveling at his feet in fear?
There was no time to process what happened next.
I grabbed one of the marble statues on the dressing room island and struck him over the head. The stone met his skull with a sickening crack. He remained motionless for several seconds. Blood poured fromhis scalp. His mouth shuddered, as though he was trying to say something, but no words came. He stumbled, his legs incapable of supporting his weight.
Oliver fell forward, the syringe dropping from his limp fingers. Wide, gleaming eyes stared back at me, his body overcome with a fatal stillness.
The moments blurred together. The confrontation. His threat. My decision to attack.
I stared at the marble statue in my hands, sprayed in blood, then again at the body on the floor, the reality of what I’d done sinking in. Oliver was dead.
I was a murderer.
29
Friday: The Night of the Party
I didn’t want Oliverto die.
Maybe that’s not true.
There were alternatives. I didn’t have to confront him alone. I could have called the police. I could have sent everything I’d gathered about his criminal history and Danielle’s death to investigators, but in that moment, after witnessing the devious look in his eyes, observing the deadly syringe in his hand, none of those options seemed relevant.
He’d threatened to take everything I have. He’d threatened Marmee.
And he’d already killed at least one former love interest.
I couldn’t let him get away with that, and everything I’ve done since that night has been not only to cover up my actions, but to make sure I get away with the crime.
It’s helpful having studied films my entire life. After Oliver died, I tried to hover above, take on the perspective of a viewer watching an actor on the screen, distance myself from the reality of what I’d done as much as I could. What they say about violence is true: It’s not like in the movies. There’s more blood, more sweat. A strange, metallic scent lingers for hours. Lugging Oliver out of the house to his final restingplace exhausted my entire body, my joints and muscles screeching in pain, and that was just the physical toll.
There are psychological repercussions, too.
But I haven’t had time to confront any of that. My priority has been getting away with murder. Almost immediately, I contacted my friends and family, telling them the engagement was called off. I never admitted anything I found about his bogus career or stealing, making the breakup seem amicable. Told anyone who asked that we weren’t ready to take the next step. The messages and emails I’d found would work in my favor should the police ever dig deeper; on paper, it seemed he was ready to purchase a condo in Florida. Besides, Oliver didn’t have anyone looking for him. Our lack of involved family was one of the many things we had in common. Even if he did, there was a clear paper trail leading him away from me.
My next endeavor was finding an excuse to leave the country; in the event I came under suspicion, there’d be enough distance between me and any pending repercussions. I reached out to the sponsors who’d invited me to Cannes. When they said I was still welcome, I jumped at the chance. More than that, I decided to overhaul my brand, another natural decision in the wake of a breakup, transitioning fromTippi’s TakestoTippi’s Travels. Now I had a legitimate reason to be out of the country for the next six months. At least.
My lease was already due to end because of our planned move to California. To an outsider looking in, it wouldn’t appear I was running away, but that I was making a rational choice to detour my plans in response to my failed engagement. I created a travel itinerary for Europe, placing myself as far away as I could, mentally and physically, from the life Oliver and I had built together, from the crime I’d committed against him.
My last undertaking was this party.
Ava’s stupid theme night in honor of my birthday.
I kept my friends at a distance following the breakup, but not suspiciously. I followed Marlowe’s lead, pulling back from my relationships, insisting I needed time to process. The party meant I’d have to face everyone again before leaving, and it was important to show the peopleclosest to me I was mentally sound and emotionally whole. If the police, or anyone else, ever started asking questions about Oliver’s whereabouts, my friends would recall this last encounter and not find anything strange.
Of course, I was nervous about having it here of all places, in the same home where Oliver died, on the same grounds where he’s buried, but with Marmee’s encouragement, I acquiesced. The party became a safety net of sorts, a way to further fluff my alibi should my behavior ever be called into question. Who on earth would agree to host an event at the same place where a crime was committed? Only my closest friends would be in attendance, none of them having any reason to pry into my secrets.
Everything was close to operating as planned.
And then Marlowe died.
No, before that, I received messages fromOliver,all the while knowing they couldn’t be from him. It was impossible. Someone was pretending to be him to mess with me, but why? Because they somehow uncovered what I’d done?
The photograph confirms it. Whoever is threatening me not only knows Oliver is dead, they know where I hid the body.
