Page 23 of The Gallagher Place
The question struck Marlowe like a shot of freezing air in her lungs. Everyone—Nate, Henry, her parents—had downplayed Harmon’s words, too scared that Marlowe couldn’t handle it, butshe had been correct. The threats were about Nora, and Ariel was taking them seriously.
“She was my best friend. We met when we were five. She lived just down the road.”
Ariel waited for her to continue. She wanted more. Marlowe’s gut twisted with apprehension. Her brothers could never wait out her silences, but Ariel was practiced at this, and her curiosity seemed to grant her all the patience in the world.
“When she vanished, it was awful.” If they were inside, Marlowe might have been able to stymie the emotion, but her eyes were already watering in the cold, and the barn blurred into a red smear, the white fields blending into the gray sky. “We couldn’t find her. Couldn’t find anything.”
“I looked over the old notes. June 5, 1998. About a year after your father purchased this land. The house would have been gone by then.” Ariel nodded at the empty square of grass, as if she was trying to anchor Marlowe to the ground, tether her to the present. Marlowe hadn’t realized the panic settling over her until Ariel pulled her back. It was jarring that Ariel could see her so well.
“So you’re familiar with the details,” Marlowe said.
Ariel shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to hear your version.”
Marlowe had no version. She had only her memory, as useless as it was, but she had nothing to hide, no matter what the rumor mill or the bloggers had to say.
“Summer had just started, and Nora was at our place,” Marlowe said. “Nate had some friends from college over, and Henry had a friend up for the weekend as well. We were up late, laughing and drinking in the kitchen. Nothing crazy. Nora and I tried the beer but we didn’t like it. We were just tagging along with Nate. It was exciting to be included with the older boys. Around midnight, Nora went to take out the trash, and she never came back.”
Marlowe swallowed hard, pushing down the images of Nora cackling at a story Nate and his college friends were telling, of her own smile as she sipped the vile-tasting beer. The kitchen floor hadn’t been redone yet—it was still the faded orange linoleum. They had been outside all day. Nora’s cheeks were tinted pink from the sun. The stifling heat of summer hadn’t set in, and chilly night air wafted through the open windows.
“We looked for her in the pitch black,” Marlowe said. “And the next day the search party started.”
“And your parents?” Ariel asked.
“They were asleep, but we woke up them and Enzo when we couldn’t find her,” Marlowe said. “They called Nora’s parents.”
Marlowe’s voice wavered when she thought of Damen and Jennifer Miller, confused and desperate. Nora spent every spare second of her life at the Gray House when Marlowe’s family was in town. She loved it. She loved the Fishers. It was supposed to be safe. Good for her, even.
Ariel looked over her shoulder, toward the trash bins by the road, tucked beneath the copse of pine trees.
“How long before you noticed she hadn’t returned?” Ariel tilted her head, like a bird eyeing a fat worm.
“No more than ten minutes,” Marlowe said. “I’m sure that’s in the reports from back then. I went over everything a million times with the detective, John Brierley.”
Ariel nodded. Marlowe could tell she already knew his name, had read and internalized whatever Brierley had written about Nora and Marlowe, had weighed his thoughts and impressions against her own. They stood side by side, both facing the Gallagher barn, backs to the road. Ariel stepped forward and turned to look at the Gray House. “Nora Miller vanished mere yards from this house. Harmon Gallagher was killed just over a mile from it, after sending threats to half your family, claiming he knew what theyhad done to Nora and the Gallagher brothers. I know all this is hard for your family, and you especially, but the circumstances are puzzling. You have to grant me that much.” Marlowe remained silent, listening with as much patience as she could.
“Ben and I have talked to your neighbors, Harmon’s family and friends, as well as other locals. We’ve been asking about Harmon and this place, but no one seems to be able to explain the Gallaghers without bringing up the Fishers.” Ariel’s tone was clipped and frank.
Marlowe huffed. “If you’re going where I think you’re going with this, then you’re wrong.”
Ariel held up a hand, a conciliatory gesture. “I’m just explaining our progress. I can see that you’re already aware of the rumors that your family was involved in Nora’s disappearance. We’re not making any assumptions. But what we want to know is if Harmon was inspired to write those threats based on general rumors, or something more specific, possibly passed to him from a relative.”
Marlowe hesitated for only a heartbeat before she took the opening Ariel was offering. “The Gallagher brothers were dead before Nora went missing. Anyway, I looked up Harmon and his father, Peter Gallagher. I’m not sure how they were related to Tom, Dave, and Leroy, but I know they couldn’t have been close.”
“Why do you say that?” Ariel’s question rang with curiosity, not judgment. It gave Marlowe confidence.
“From the age of five onward, I spent all summer and every holiday here,” Marlowe said. “I never saw any family visit those brothers on Thanksgiving or Christmas Day. Not once. No cousins came to help out with the hay.Wehelped. I’m not saying that makes us their family, but they asked Nate, and it was fun for us, and they had no one else. If any relatives were poking around here after the brothers died, they didn’t make themselves known to us. It would have been too little, too late, anyway.”
“So you’re saying it’s very unlikely that Harmon could have known anything about Nora at all,” Ariel mused. “Or even if he thought he knew something, it couldn’t have been based on firsthand knowledge from a relative.”
The tension was dissolving between them. Marlowe suddenly felt as if she were Ariel’s partner and they were bouncing ideas off each other, crafting and comparing theories, the way she and Nora had once composed pretend histories for Dave Gallagher’s lost love or Mr. Babel.
“I just keep wondering how often Harmon camped out around here without us knowing about it,” Marlowe said. “And if other Gallagher cousins might have been doing that.”
“Back when Nora vanished.” Ariel finished the thought for her. This was the part the detective loved, Marlowe could tell by the way she nodded, her nose twitching, as if she were catching the scent. That pulled Marlowe up short. Ariel was a hunter, and Marlowe didn’t yet know Ariel’s preferred prey.
“We spoke to Damen Miller,” Ariel continued. “He claims he didn’t know Harmon Gallagher and was surprised when we asked if Harmon or anyone else had ever approached him about Nora. But Damen also told us he doesn’t think he’s ever known the whole truth of what happened that night he lost his daughter.”
“From us, you mean. Did he say that? Does he think I would have lied to him?” Marlowe frowned. Damen deserved her sympathy, but she felt only annoyance.
