Another mystery clarified. Marlowe wasn’t distraught over her divorce that day, an accusation levied against her; she was upset about the affair. Ava misread the situation and attacked. Constance allowed it to happen. Marlowe, not wanting to ruin the day or inflict further pain on Ava, remained silent, waiting for the right moment to release the truth. Between the wedding planning and the breakup and this party, it never came.
Ava continues stuffing clothes into her suitcase, her careful demeanor abandoned, her once-styled hair a sweaty, mangled mess.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
The police ordered everyone to stay. The last thing Ava needs to do is storm off in the middle of the night, especially now that she knows what I did to Oliver. Her reaction to the affair is visceral and raw and warranted, but I must keep her here, reclaim control before untamed emotions expose my darkest secret.
“You can’t leave.”
“I’m not staying here!” she says but stops packing, stares at something unseen in the distance, and begins to laugh, possessed by some cruel joke. “In one night, I’ve learned one friend died, one is a murderer, and the other one is fucking my husband.”
Her words pierce me, filling me with hurt and regret. It’s all I can do to keep myself standing upright. Before tonight, my biggest concern was getting away with Oliver’s murder. I thought that was the worst thing in the world.
“Look,” I say to Ava, “I need you. Together we can prove Damien pushed Marlowe. She deserves justice.”
“This lovely revelation changes that, too,” she says, zipping her suitcase shut.
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it, Tippi. We assumed Damien was the only person who’d want to hurt Marlowe.” She fixes me with a strange stare. “That’s not really the case anymore, is it?”
All night, I’ve been accumulating reasons Damien might have murdered Marlowe and sought to blackmail me. Oliver’s cell phone hidden in his guest room confirms he’s the blackmailer, but I’ve had tunnel vision, assuming if Damien was the person scattering messages around the house, he must also be responsible for Marlowe’s death. But now? Ava is right. It pains me to consider it, but Constance and Preston have obvious reasons to want Marlowe dead.
“Do you really think Preston or Constance could do something to Marlowe?”
“I didn’t think they were capable of fucking each other behind my back,” she says. “And I was wrong about that.”
“Ava? Tippi?” Constance’s voice carries from the hallway. Like Preston, she must wonder why Ava is so upset. “Are either of you in there?”
Ava starts for the door, but I jump in front of her, shouting over my shoulder, “Go back to the parlor, Constance!”
“What’s going on?” she whisper-shouts. “Did you find something in Damien’s things?”
The door creeps open.
I dart past Ava, slamming the door behind me as I enter the hallway.
“What is taking you two so long?” Constance asks, leaning against the wall to keep pressure off her injured foot. “I thought I was supposed to be distracting Damien. Ava came running down the stairs crying. What’s going on?”
Protectively, I step to the left, blocking the closed bedroom door. It’s a bizarre situation to be in, staring at Constance, the person who used to comfort me after breakups, nurse me to health after particularly bad hangovers. When she was nervous and afraid about IUI, I accompanied her, served reassurance.
I don’t want to believe this same person could betray Ava.
“Before she died, Marlowe wrote a letter,” I begin.
Her face turns pale. “What do you mean, a letter? Like, a suicide note—”
“No.” I clench my eyes shut, trying to forget the horrible revelations that have surfaced tonight. Marlowe’s death. The affair. “She wrote a lettertoAva.”
Constance’s eyes dart in the direction of the bedroom, waiting. “Okay.”
“In the letter,” I say, summoning the courage to continue, “she accused you and Preston of having an affair.”
I’ve said it. Those ugly words that have already provoked so much sorrow tonight, and all I can hope, with every fiber of my being, is that Constance will say it’s not true. There’s been a misunderstanding. Marlowe was confused, wrong. Hell, maybe Marlowe didn’t even write the letter, and this is only another twisted layer to Damien’s manipulative game.
Constance’s voice trembles when she speaks. “Did Ava read it?”
