“Beautiful,” I agreed. “Maybe Mrs. Wilson could serve our breakfast out here.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she said, and then a sound from below interrupted. The lead landscaper and his crew had arrived and were beginning to pour concrete around the fountain. “I forgot about the workers. All this noise will disturb us.”
“It won’t bother me,” I said, watching the crew assemble around the fountain. “I can block it out.”
Mrs. Wilson served a quiche lorraine that morning. Marmee and I sat on the balcony, watching as the construction crew put the finishing touches on the revitalized fountain. I watched the grainy liquid pour out of the machine, creating layer upon layer of concealment. It was done.
Oliver would remain here for the rest of time, and I would be the only person who knew it.
31
Friday: The Night of the Party
Everyone gathers in theparlor, but no one interacts. Preston drinks by the bar. Constance is still on the sofa, her foot elevated as much as possible with her swollen stomach. Ava paces the room, cradling herself, refusing to look at me. Damien stands by the fire, encouraging the flames with a stoker. Sparks rise like flares.
My nerves are ablaze now that Ava knows I killed Oliver. Normally, she’s good at keeping secrets unless revealing them is part of some larger plan, like the way she roped Marmee into hosting tonight’s party without my approval. But this discovery is too monumental, far more damning than some scandalous gossip. I’ve murdered a man. Somehow, I have to keep tabs on Ava while trying to investigate Damien’s possible involvement. I revisit the theory I unraveled to Ava moments ago, but there is no guarantee she’s willing to help me.
“Who’s going to tell Marlowe’s parents?” Constance asks, breaking the silence.
The pain in my chest is so visceral and biting, it’s hard to breathe. Unlike the rest of us, with our complicated familial relationships, Marlowe always got along with her parents. She was their only child. Ivisited them for Thanksgiving once, and it was the most flavorful turkey and dressing I’ve ever had. That type of domestic perfection can be its own curse, in a way. It’s why she was distraught after her divorce; she felt like a failure.
Her parents will be lost without her.
“Police will alert them,” Preston answers.
“Maybe it should be one of us,” Ava says, her voice frail, worrisome. She looks at Damien. “Did you meet them?”
“We were never that serious. I’m not going to inform them their daughter died.”
Ava and I lock eyes. Her stare is withered with shock and despondency, but there’s something else, a spark of curiosity. Suspicion. She must be considering what I said about Damien upstairs, clinging to the possibility that he’s involved.
“Earlier tonight, you said you weren’t supposed to be here this weekend,” Ava says to Damien. She’s fighting to keep a neutral tone. “What changed?”
“I was scheduled to speak at a conference down South. Plans fell through.”
This excuse piques my interest, sounds too similar to the lies Oliver used to spin. “Do you travel a lot for work?”
“Occasionally.” He raises his glass to his lips only to remember it’s empty. Annoyed, he clangs his glass against the bar top.
Ava seems to be analyzing his every word. Still staring at me, she says, “I could use a drink, too. Would Marmee mind if we grabbed a bottle from the wine cellar?”
“Of course not.” My relief that Ava is willing to interact with me, that she doesn’t completely hate me, is overwhelming. I choke back fresh tears. “She doesn’t care.”
“Come with me?” she says to Preston. “It’s creepy down there.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll come, too,” Damien says. Just like earlier in the night, he’s fascinated by Marmee’s house; Ava assumed he wouldn’t dismiss an opportunity to see more valuables. “I plan on drinking until this night is over.”
Concocting an excuse for him to leave was almost too easy. I wait for them to disappear around the corner, hear their footsteps descending the cellar stairs, then cozy up to Constance.
“Ava and I have a plan.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, shifting her leg to make room for me on the couch.
“We think Damien is the one who pushed Marlowe,” I say. “We’re going to search his room and see if there’s anything that can prove it.”
“What could possibly prove he pushed her?”
