She’s hoping to take off with him, embark on their new life before the police learn about what she did to Marlowe.
Ava lets out a pitying, cruel laugh. “You’re not understanding. He doesn’t want a fresh start with you.”
“Of course he does.”
I step toward her, hands in front of me. “Preston didn’t do this for you.”
“He’s starting over on his own,” Ava says.
Constance begins blinking rapidly. She looks at Preston. “What are they talking about?”
“Yes, Preston,” Ava says. “Tell her everything you were saying upstairs.”
Preston is agitated, tonight’s bloodshed and emotional outbursts impeding his own self-serving plans. “I need a fresh start from everyone. It’s time for me to put myself first.”
“What about me?” Constance looks surprised. She genuinely bought into his lies, and I feel a pang of sympathy for her. She lowers the weapon to her side. “What about the baby?”
“Neither of us planned for this to happen—”
“But it happened!” Her voice softens. “It’s meant to be. You said you wanted to be together.”
“I said what I thought would make you happy in the moment,” he says. “That’s all I was trying to do.”
Constance’s chest rises and falls, her hopes and dreams ruined.
“I betrayed my friend for you,” she says. “Ikilledmy friend for you!”
“Marlowe?” Ava says, raising her hand to her mouth.
Ava and Preston continued to think Damien was responsible for Marlowe’s death, and I never corrected their assumptions because I wanted to confront him. Now the truth is barreling into us all, the brutality of it impossible to accept. Marlowe didn’t die at the hands of a jealous boyfriend, someone she barely knew; she was murdered by one of her closest friends.
Constance begins to cry.
“Marlowe threatened to tell you about the affair,” she says to Ava, “and I wasn’t ready to face it yet. We started fighting.” She pauses. “And I pushed her.”
“I never asked you to do those things,” Preston says, his voice labored, as though he’s not sure how much more he can take.
“Didn’t you?” Constance says, a painful laugh escaping from her lips. “When you talked about leaving Ava, raising the baby together—those were promises you made. I’m tired of making you a priority when you only see me as optional.”
“I’ve had enough,” he says, puffing his chest. “I’m sure you’ll be in touch after the baby is born. Until then, I have places to go.” He yanks my arm. “Come on, Tippi!”
A shot cracks.
I brace for impact, clenching my eyes shut. I wait for the piercing pain of a bullet cutting through flesh, but nothing happens. When I dare to open my eyes again, my head spins, trying to account for everyone in the room. Ava is crouched in front of me, hands over her ears. Constance stands in the same position by the front door, arms extended.
Preston is on the floor.
My eyes bulge at the sight of him. Blood spurts from a wound in his neck. He thrashes in pain, mouth open, gasping for air.
“Preston!” Ava rushes over to him, crouching beside him.
“You shot him.” My words spill out.
Constance stares at the gun as if it isn’t real. Shakily, she places it on the sideboard, beside the flower arrangement where Oliver’s first card appeared earlier in the night, and hobbles out of the house.
I stare at Ava. She’s taken the shawl from around her shoulders and pressed it to the gaping wound in Preston’s neck. Tears trail down her cheeks as she raises her head. “How long until the police arrive?”
“It can’t be much longer,” I say, heart thudding in my chest.
