“Oliver has nothing to do with what happened tonight.” Ava’s voice is solid, resolute. A type of promise.
“Ava, you don’t have to keep this secret—”
“Yes, I do,” she says, stepping closer. She holds my hand. “Tippi, you’re my best friend. You’ve always been my best friend. You’re like a sister to me.”
Regret scratches the back of my throat, tears blurring my vision. My words come out as a whisper. “I killed him, Ava. There’s no defending that.”
“And I understand why you did it,” she says, squeezing my hands tighter. “He took something from you. He threatened you.” She raises her gaze to the staircase. “He threatened to hurt the ones you love.”
Marmee watches over us, a gentle understanding in her eyes. She made a similar pact over fifty years ago with Mrs. Wilson, when my grandfather put her in the position of having to protect another person.
Flashes of blue and red filter through the open front door, brakes screeching to a halt.
“They’re here,” I say. Ava squeezes my hand.
Over the years, I’ve written off Ava as someone self-involved and superficial because that’s the way the rest of the world sees her, the box they put her in. But I was wrong. I don’t know why I wasn’t able to see it before.
She’s always been the person by my side. When I was lonely in college and she chose to watch old movies with me rather than go outpartying. When she shifted her entire schedule to plan the wedding of my dreams. And now she’s keeping my biggest secret.
More than just keeping it, she understands why I did it.
It’s the same bond that’s held Marmee and Mrs. Wilson together all these years.
It appears some relationships are built to last, after all.
45
Ava and I siton the ledge of the crow fountain watching police shuffle around the scene.
Marmee stands inside the parlor, leaning against her crow cane. An officer questions her about the night’s events, but she provides little information. According to her, she was sound asleep until she heard the gunshots.
Ava, Constance, and I fill in the other details.
We explain that Preston, on the verge of financial ruin and marital disaster, forced me to steal Marmee’s jewelry at gunpoint. It doesn’t take much convincing. When the police arrived, the open bag of jewels lay next to his body, soaking up his blood. Constance admitted she shot him, then continued to confess what she did earlier in the night, to Marlowe.
Constance has been wrestling with her guilty conscience for most of the night. I can forgive her for Preston, but never for Marlowe. It was an impulsive action, a crime of passion, but her aggression was taken out on someone who didn’t deserve it. Marlowe was a true friend to all of us, even her.
I only wish she had included us earlier. We might have been able to protect her.
Two officers emerge from the shadowy walking path pulling a gurney behind them.
Damien lies strapped to the cot, his eyes open wide, pupils dilated. Relief spreads through my chest when I see he’s okay.
I spent most of the night thinking Damien was responsible for the blackmail, and even Marlowe’s death. My fixation was a defense mechanism to conceal that someone I loved was the real culprit. It’s something I’ve done for years, I realize. Lying to myself about the people in my life, villainizing some, glorifying others. Tonight, with all of its bloodshed and deception, has brought clarity.
Straight ahead, Constance slumps inside a police cruiser. Her hands are shackled behind her back, the door open, giving her some air. She stares at nothing. Even after everything she’s done, I can’t help mourning our friendship. A month from now, she’s due to give birth. Her closest friends—Marlowe, Ava, and me—were meant to be by her side when she welcomed her first child into the world. Impulsive actions and selfish choices have stripped all that from her. It’s tragic.
Constance raises her head and catches me staring at her. She nods for us to come over. Ava turns, refusing to interact, a final stab at Constance’s ego.
Reluctantly, I approach the cruiser, rotating waves of blue and red shading the dark landscape.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.” Her eyes fill with glistening tears. “To everyone.”
“It was brave of you to confess,” I say. “Marlowe deserves justice.”
“She does,” Constance says, her voice breaking with emotion. Her gaze falls to her swollen stomach. “What’s going to happen to the baby?”
“You’ll make the right choice,” I say.
