It’s such a clichéd response, and the use of the wordwemakes me cringe. A maniacal grimace stretches across Ava’s face. She lowers her gaze to Constance’s midsection, a perceptible evil in her stare. “Is the baby his?”
Constance continues to look at Ava, refusing to move her face in either direction. Finally, she says, “I’m so sorry.”
The change of tone in her voice, shifting from regret to pity, is what does it. Ava extends her arms toward Constance. Rage overrides her sensibilities.
Constance recedes, narrowly avoiding another tumble. I reach for her, pulling her arm forward, just as she’s about to collide with the wall. The sudden movement puts too much pressure on her injured foot, and she whimpers in pain.
“I will never forgive you for this,” Ava spits at Constance. There’s venom in her stare, murderous intent writhing and winding between us, unraveling nearly two decades of friendship. She turns to me. “Keep them away from me. If I see either one of them, I can’t say what I might do.”
My intuition tells me that Ava may not say, but she knows.
33
Constance looked unwell aftershe injured her foot, but now she seems even worse. Dark half-moons appear beneath water-rimmed lashes, her skin pallid and parched. Glassy eyes stare into the abyss. Did she appear this haggard earlier in the night, or did Ava’s reaction steal the life from inside her?
“Let’s go back to the parlor,” I say. “Leave her alone until the police arrive.”
Constance nods, drifting away from me, like some kind of tortured spirit haunting the halls of Marmee’s house. I let her take several steps ahead and turn the corner before I pull Oliver’s phone from my pocket. Preston and Constance’s affair has jumbled my thoughts. I’ve been supportive of Ava, but I must return to my earlier mission. Damien is the one threatening me. But why?
Did Damien break into my apartment last week? Is that how he accessed Oliver’s phone? His watch? I recall the masked intruder, searching for any similarity between them. Body language, the color and shape of the dark eyes visible through the slim slits in the fabric.
I slip the phone back into my pocket. Before I rejoin the others in the parlor, Preston enters the hallway. The sight of him sends another hot wave of anxiety crashing through me.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asks, brow furrowed, fists clenched at his sides. “First, Ava comes running down the stairs crying. Now Constance is hysterical again.”
“Ava knows.”
“Knows what?” Preston’s expression is blank. His eyes bounce between the closed bedroom door and me. He looks as clueless now as he ever did, and I wonder how easy it’s been for him to deceive me over the years, to deceive all of us. All the times I deemed him a shitty liar, an open book—was that only what he wanted me, and everyone else, to see? Much like Patrick Bateman, the character he’s dressed as tonight, his manipulative tendencies know no bounds.
“Marlowe wrote a letter to Ava before she died,” I explain. It’s as though Ava’s anger has transferred to me. Moments ago, I was protecting Constance from being struck. Now I could very easily channel that same rage to wring Preston’s neck. “She’s known about the affair for weeks.”
Preston’s expression blanks. He tries pushing past me to reach the bedroom door, but I block him. Ava isn’t in the right mindset for a confrontation. I know, better than anyone, the devastation that can be caused by acting off emotions alone.
“She’s my wife.” Preston’s voice cracks. “You have to let me speak to her.”
He overpowers me and bursts through the door, sending us both tumbling into the room. Ava sits on the bed. Her head jolts up, anger searing in her eyes. She shouts when she sees him.
“How could you do this to me? After everything we’ve been through?”
“I’m sorry, Ava. I never wanted you to find out this way. Especially tonight.”
Ava begins to sob. “She’s one of my closest friends? Why?”
I try to consider Preston’s motives, rationalize the unforgivable. Preston likes being the center of attention, a sensation he’s not had since hissports career ended. Then Constance came into his life. Someone new. Something exciting. A way for him to feel like he was in control of his life again.
“She lets me be me,” he says, finally, the comment so ridiculous it’s all I can do not to smack him myself. “I don’t have to impress her.”
“Of course you don’t! Constance is ever-changing! You’re her latest project, don’t you see? She’s trying something new before carrying on with her life.” Her tears dry and her voice hardens on the icy confession that follows. “Then there’s me. I’ve been with you through everything. I’ve carried you. For years.”
“And you never let me forget it.”
I’ve witnessed the inner workings of Ava’s relationships for years, even before Preston came along, but being present for this argument, all their vulnerabilities exposed, I feel for her. I feel for him. Nothing I say can remedy the situation.
“I knew something was off between us,” she says, “but I never imagined you’d hurt me like this.”
“You’re right. All of this is my fault. I take complete responsibility.” Preston steps forward, raises his hands to touch her, but she shrugs away.
“I get it now. You never wanted a wife with a successful business. You liked the idea of being the provider, calling the shots, even when you weren’t. There’s no denying I’m the breadwinner, the one keeping us afloat. And instead of being grateful, you resent me.”
