Ava had asked fewer questions, likely because she was stunned about Oliver, desperate for anything to take the edge off that discovery, but it’s Constance’s nature to probe and try to find meaning. I can’t very well tell her my real objective, which is to see if he’s the person pretending to be Oliver, threatening me.
“We could find something that points to a motive. Before my tarot reading, Marlowe and Damien were arguing because he saw messages on her phone from Michael. I think it was a fight that escalated,” I say, glossing over details, both to save time and to put an end to the pestering questions. “Maybe he has a reason to harm her we don’t know about.”
Constance considers this, her brow furrowing. “If he wanted to hurt her, why do it here, of all places?”
In the movies, motive is simple. Most crimes can be sectioned into three categories: crimes of passion, pride, and greed. The duo inRopeaims to flatter their egos by committing the perfect murder. Unchecked jealousy and obsession influence the crimes inVertigoandPsycho.Money might be the biggest motivator, both in real life and on the screen. Did Damien kill Marlowe to keep her from interfering with his blackmail plans, or did he have another motive?
“Maybe he wanted her death to look like an accident, and having an audience would help his story,” I say. “He never knew I was outside when she fell. No one did.”
Constance nods along. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep him distracted.” I examine her injury, bright red bursts seeping through the gauze. “Complain about your foot. Maybe ask him to wrap it again. Anything to keep him downstairs.”
“What about Preston?”
“We don’t have time to explain everything to him,” I say. “Besides, he’s a shitty liar.”
Preston has the worst poker face. Once, he told me his high school coach punted him from the position of pitcher for that reason; batters could predict whether he was throwing a curveball or changeup based on his smirk. Constance nods, agreeing to our plan. I move across the room so it doesn’t look like we’ve been talking.
Sure enough, the others emerge minutes later with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Preston and Damien attack the bottle greedily. After Ava receives a glass, we lock eyes. I take it as a signal she’s still willing to play along. Gratitude puddles inside my chest.
After making an excuse to head upstairs, we’re about to start our search, until I hear Marmee’s voice echoing through the halls.
“Tippi?” she calls from her wing of the house. “Is that you?”
I take a deep breath before retrieving my key to unlock the door, unable to ignore her, even amid chaos. Ava slips into the room behindme.
Marmee sits in her armchair, the crow cane beside her, as though she’s ready to get up at any moment.
“How are you feeling?” Ava’s voice exudes warmth. She’s always admired Marmee. Maybe if she isn’t capable of keeping my secret for my sake, she’ll be willing to do it for her.
“I’m worried about all of you,” she answers.
“You should be in bed,” I say.
“You can’t really think I’d go to sleep after everything that’s happened,” she says. “Tell me you were able to get ahold of someone at Mrs. Wilson’s cottage.”
“I called the police. They should arrive within the hour.”
Marmee’s eyes bounce between us, a quizzical look on her face.
“Tippi, is everything all right?”
My chest pains when I try to speak. Hiding my true intentions, especially to Marmee, is nearly impossible. Ava, beside me, rustles the skirt of her dress, declining to answer.
“Our best friend died, Marmee,” I say. “We’re just trying to cope.”
“I know, dear.” She pauses. “But you seem different.”
Oliver’s death is no longer a secret.
Ava knows what I’ve done.
I’m being blackmailed.
But I can’t tell her the truth. If Marmee knew what I did to Oliver, it would destroy her. She knows something is off. Something more than Marlowe’s death, which is monumental enough.
She leans forward, grabbing my hand. “You’ve done all you can do.”
