“What happened when you went into the library?”
“I just wanted to talk to her,” she says, wincing as she remembers. “She’d been ignoring my phone calls for weeks. Refused to meet with me. Half the reason I was so excited about tonight was because I knew she wouldn’t bail on your birthday. I was hoping this was my chance to set things right.
“But Marlowe was even angrier than the last time we’d spoken. Being around all three of us at once—Ava, Preston, and me—was too much. She told me our friendship was over. That she couldn’t surround herself with people that only cared about themselves.”
Constance’s rhythm becomes more rapid, each word falling into the next. She begins rubbing her chest as though to calm herself.
“And then she told me she was going to tell Ava.”
The hard edge of the moonstone medallion presses into my thumb as I squeeze it tighter. “She was trying to be a good friend.”
“I know. Ava would find out eventually, but not this weekend. Not before the baby was born.” She pauses, looks down at her stomach, so blinded by her own desires she’s not even considering how much pain she’s inflicted.
“You think Preston is going to leave Ava once the baby is born?”
“Yes.” She clings to that last shred of confidence. “That’s the plan.”
The plan.Their affair goes far beyond selfish lust. They intend to be together. Preston is going to leave Ava for one of her closest friends. He is going to become a parent without her. Even after I heard him begging for forgiveness in the other room. The personal malice of his betrayal is almost enough to make me scream.
“Marlowe told me I should tell Ava the truth.” Her voice wavers as the sobs increase. “She said Ava was going to find out this weekend, one way or another. If I wasn’t brave enough to tell her myself, she was going to do it.”
Marlowe meant it. That was why she wrote the letter. She wanted to give Constance one last opportunity to do the right thing, but if she refused to be honest, Marlowe planned on breaking the news. She refused to keep the secret any longer.
“How did Marlowe end up on the balcony?”
“We kept going back and forth, exchanging insults. She was trying to move past me when she knocked the table into the balcony doors. She rushed outside to get away, and I followed her.” Her eyes are beastly, untamed. “Next thing I know, she’s going over the ledge.”
“You pushed her.”
“I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t trying…” Her tone breaks. “I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted her to stop threatening to ruin everything. I was protecting myself.”
Protecting her secrets. Protecting the delicate fantasy she’d constructed. This delusional world where she and Preston could be together and raise a child without fracturing every relationship along the way. Marlowe’s death wasn’t an accident or a form of self-protection; the chaotic scene in the library proves that. Broken glass, overturned table. Marlowe went onto the balcony to run away from her friend, but Constance, fueled by madness and desperation, wouldn’t let her go.
I force myself to look away, the sight of Constance and her delusion too painful.
“I keep going back to that moment in my mind, wishing I’d gone over the ledge instead.” She tries moving closer to me. “I’d trade places with her if I could.”
But she can’t. And Marlowe would never put herself in a position to hurt Constance or anyone else. She would have walked away, moved on. Shetried.The inconsolable sorrow Constance has expressed since Marlowe died isn’t because of grief. It’s because of guilt.
Through tears, I manage to say, “I can’t believe it was you.”
The hypocrisy of my words is startling.
Constance and I are both killers. What separates us is the reason behind our deeds. Oliver was a bad person. A manipulator. A murderer.
Marlowe was our friend, and Constance’s actions are unforgivable.
“The police will be here soon,” I say, stumbling to a standing position.
“Are you going to tell the cops?” Constance asks, leaning forward, reaching after me. “Are you going to tell the others?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I mutter as I climb the grand staircase, believing no truer words have ever been spoken.
36
I float like aphantom down the hallway, wandering with no purpose, no destination.
I’m not sure how any of us will be able to recover from this night.
