As I’m pulling her far arm closer to me, I notice her hand. She graspssomething, the object tangled around her fingers. I stand, moving to her other side, and take a closer look.
When I see what she’s holding, I gasp, stumbling away from Marlowe as though what’s appearing before me can’t be true. Can’t be real. My heartbeat thunders inside my chest.
I stare at the house, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that her killer is inside.
35
The foyer is oppressivelywarm compared to the evening breeze outside. When the door shuts behind me, it’s like a stone slab covering a tomb, imprisoning me.
Preston approaches me first. He’s been crying, cheeks ruddy, eyes exhausted. “Where have you been?”
“Covering Marlowe.” My voice cracks as though it’s been idle for years, my body struggling to summon the strength it needs to keep going. “Where is everyone?”
“Ava refuses to leave her room. She won’t talk to me.” He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “Constance is still in the parlor. I can’t really deal with her right now.”
Preston’s behavior is nothing short of cowardly. Spineless. The urge to slap him is overwhelming. What did either of my friends ever see in him? How did I consider him a friend, a confidant, for so many years?
“And Damien?”
He shrugs. “No idea.”
Someone should have eyes on Damien at all times. He can’t be trusted. I still need to find a way to confront him before the policearrive, but right now, after what I uncovered outside, this next conversation is more important.
“Could you see if he’s wandering the grounds?” I ask, searching for an excuse to make Preston leave. “I’ll check on Ava.”
He nods, likely grateful for an excuse to escape the heartache he’s caused. You can almost feel the pain and betrayal pulsing in every room, shimmering in the air. Constance calls my name from inside the parlor.
I exhale slowly before entering. She’s still sitting on the sofa, trying to reposition herself to standing.
“Don’t move,” I say. “You should rest your foot.”
“It’s feeling better. The police should be here soon, right?” Her expression changes when she registers the look on my face. “What’s wrong?”
My spine bows as I try to find the stamina to continue. My chest aches when I speak.
“I found this outside,” I say, holding out my shaking hand.
A necklace dangles from my fingers, a narrow moonstone medallion hanging from the end. Constance jumps back, wincing in pain from her foot’s sudden movement.
“That’s mine.” She touches the bare spot on her chest where it had rested earlier in the evening.
“I know.” Tears blur my vision. “I found it in Marlowe’s hand.”
Constance’s face changes. Her beautiful eyes, always seeking answers and meaning, are blank. Her lip trembles as she whispers, “I can explain.”
I clench my eyes shut and turn, trying to maintain control. “You said you were in the bathroom when she fell.”
“I was.” She pauses, her eyes darting from left to right as she tries to decide how much to reveal. Her voice shakes. “As I left, I saw Marlowe heading into the library. I thought it was my chance to talk to her. About everything.”
“The two of you had been fighting ever since the dress fitting,” I say, a knowing sickness writhing inside me. Marlowe’s strange behavior in recent weeks—dodging calls, refusing to join in on the wedding planning, even the strange conversation we had earlier in the kitchen, aboutknowing when to leave certain friendships behind—was never about Ava. She was avoiding Constance.
Constance nods, her chin beginning to quiver. Fresh tears roll down her cheeks.
“During the dress fitting, Preston sent me a message. Marlowe heard the notification and picked up my phone, thinking it was hers. She read it. I tried explaining it was a misunderstanding, but Marlowe wasn’t buying it. You couldn’t get anything past her, you know? She kept grilling me until I told her the truth. That Preston and I had been sleeping together for months.”
I shake my head in disbelief. That one day has been misinterpreted again and again. Ava assumed Marlowe was making the moment about herself, and snapped at her for it. Now we know the truth, that Marlowe was never pitying herself or angry with Ava. She was disgusted by Constance and Preston, had been trying to avoid them ever since.
The very moment Marlowe learned about the affair was the same instant I’d learned about Danielle’s death. That day sent me on a different path, one that made me obsessed with finding out the truth about Oliver. I hardly paid attention to my friends that day. I didn’t care. The chaos in my own world took over.
