Page 24 of The Gallagher Place
“You don’t strike me as a liar,” Ariel said. “But if you did, you were a minor and it was twenty years ago. You wouldn’t be culpable.”
Marlowe went still, and the detective held her gaze. This was what Ariel had intended to ask her all along. It wasn’t about the Gallaghers or Harmon. Ariel wanted to see if Marlowe would change her story about Nora. If Marlowe would react to Damen’s insinuation.
“I didn’t lie about anything, and neither did anyone in my family,” Marlowe said. “I don’t know why Harmon Gallagher was bringing up Nora, and I don’t know why he was out in that field. But I want you to find the answers. I’ll tell you everything I can. About the Gallaghers and about Nora.”
“I appreciate that.” Ariel flashed a gentle smile, and Marlowe’s shoulders loosened with relief. Ariel believed her. “It’s a muddled situation. Nora’s case has a lot of dead ends; that’s what I’ve gleaned from Brierley’s notes.” Ariel paused. “Do you know that one local actually suggested that a wolf got her? As if this were the seventeenth century and packs of wolves still roamed the woods.”
Ariel chuckled, but Marlowe remained stone-faced. She couldn’t act casual. Not about Nora.
“And another lady who lived in town, she thought that Nora might have been a changeling,” Ariel said. “That the witches or elves or whatever came and claimed her back. She was an old woman, probably a little off her rocker, but still.”
“This region is old.” Marlowe tried not to reveal that at one time she had been seduced by similar theories. “The old stories about this place. Some people haven’t let them go, I guess.”
“Tell me about it,” Ariel said. “My mom lives in Kinderhook, near Ichabod Crane High School. Their mascot is literally the Headless Horseman.”
The snowflakes whirled down in dizzying spirals. Damp clumps clung to the grass. The Gray House’s windows glowed across the street, beckoning them, as if to say,Come back here, to where it’s warm and safe. Glory had put the wreath up on the front door.
“Marlowe.” Ariel’s voice had a dry rasp to it. “What do you think happened to Nora?”
“I don’t know,” Marlowe said. “At the time, I thought someone from her school or someone local had taken her. Maybe some sortof stalker. Someone who was never suspected or looked at closely. Maybe he got her in his car and drove away before Nate and I went out looking for her.”
“Interesting you sayhe.”
“But Brierley thought she ran away.” Marlowe shook her head. “He didn’t explore every option, and he didn’t have all the tech and the forensics that exist today. He had a few bloodhounds that never caught a real trail, and that was it.”
Marlowe didn’t know she was still angry about it, but standing under that chestnut tree, where the Gallagher house once stood, she found some of the rage that had filled her teenage heart. Brierley had neverlistenedto her. Marlowe had told him the truth, and he hadn’t believed her. He hadn’t even sufficiently questioned her. He had spent most of his time grilling Nate and then Henry, hammering him with questions until he cried. He’d gone so far as to collect DNA samples from the men in the house—a desperate attempt to reassure a restless community that he was doing everything he could to bring a local girl home. They’d all obliged voluntarily, but it didn’t matter. No tangible evidence was ever found.
“All that stuff the bio experts can tell us, that’s useful, sure. But the way we solve a case isn’t through forensics. It’s through talking to people, asking questions, until something or someone sticks out. Something doesn’t add up. The forensics and DNA and all that—that’s just for the judge, jury, and executioner. It’s important. But it’s not how we catch them.” Ariel took a long breath before continuing. “So that’s why we’re talking to you, and Harmon’s family and friends, over and over. That’s why I’m asking about Nora; there’s a connection there. I have a hunch that some long-forgotten detail might lead us to answers about Harmon, and if we’re good enough detectives, it could also lead us to answers about Nora.”
Marlowe stared at Ariel in stunned silence. She almost felt pity for the woman and her hubris. Ariel believed she was going to figure it all out—the mess that no one had untangled for decades. She thought she was that good.
Still, a foolish hope glimmered to life in her heart.
“You want to know what happened, right?” Ariel pulled her hands out of her pockets and adjusted her gloves.
Marlowe’s head spun at the possibility. What would it feel like to finally know? Would it bring her any peace? Would she want vengeance? Or would this whole affair be another disappointment, possibly more of a torment than the initial tragedy? She had a sudden need to lie down, to breathe, to be alone.
“I want Nora back.” Marlowe turned and started walking back toward the Gray House at a faster pace than before. Ariel had to scurry to catch up.
As Marlowe’s boots smacked the pavement of the road, Ariel tapped her elbow. Marlowe’s arm jerked at the physical contact.
“Why don’t you think she ran away?” Ariel asked. “At her age—it seems like the most reasonable explanation.”
Marlowe’s words were heavy in her throat, but she forced them out. “If she had run away, she would have taken me with her.”
THIRTEEN
Ariel and Marlowe both slowed as they approached the Gray House. Their conversation had sparked thoughts and feelings in Marlowe, but she was tired, as if digging around in her past was a physical exertion. She stopped before the porch steps, gathering herself before climbing them. Above her head, each thin branch of the birch tree held a layer of pristine snow. As a child, Marlowe once asked her mother why the white of the birch tree changed colors from season to season. She knew now that the bark didn’t change at all; it was only the angle of the sun that cast a different light on its branches. It was not magic, simply the inevitable turning of the earth.
Two figures passed by the front window on their way to the living room. Enzo, hunched and wobbling; Glory, her arm firm around his.
“There’s Enzo. He’s awake.” Marlowe gave Ariel an apologetic look. “I have to warn you, though, he might not have much to say. His mind’s been going.”
“I’m curious about this Enzo Marino,” Ariel said, lingering on the porch steps.
Marlowe quirked her lips. “You mean Enzo Marino?” Like the rest of her family, she put an extreme emphasis on the second syllable. “What about him?”
“What’s he doing here?” Ariel asked. “He’s not related to your family. He was, what, a handyman? A groundskeeper?”
