Page 29 of The Gallagher Place
“Well, that’s the thing,” Nora said. “No one really has to know; I thought everyone would be able to tell I got it, but it’s not like that.”
“Good.” Marlowe nodded, relieved that Nora had been the one to go first. Though Marlowe was five months older and a few inches taller, Nora was braver.
As Nora recounted her momentous four days, Marlowe’s mind began to wobble around this new imbalance between them. She decided it was a good thing: With a guide like Nora, she knew she would be ready to take the leap into womanhood too. They climbed down the ladder and stepped into the orange light glinting through the windows, when inspiration struck.
Marlowe dashed over to the neat row of pitchforks, hoes, and shovels leaning against the wall near the knife-sharpening wheel.
“Let’s move them,” Marlowe whispered. “Just a bit—to commemorate this day.”
Nora caught on at once. “Of course!”
Marlowe flipped every shovel so the blades were facing up, and Nora moved a row of empty milk pails from one side of the aisle to the other, then she tipped over a bucket of dried yellow corn kernels, scattering them across the floor.
“It will look like the wind did it,” she said.
“Exactly!”
Their hearts racing with all the thrills of the day, they dashed through the barn doors, sprinted across the smaller cow pen, and disappeared behind the thick row of trees that bordered the Gallagher property.
Huge crystalline snowflakes were swirling down again. Nora held out her tongue and caught one. In no time, their footprints would disappear without a trace.
The girls weaved through the trees and came out onto the road. If anyone spotted them now, they would appear to be the picture of innocence, as pure as freshly fallen snow.
TUESDAY
NOVEMBER 27, 2018
FIFTEEN
It wasn’t a long walk, but she had to drive. Marlowe told her parents she was going to town to run some errands—pulling away in her blue Toyota RAV4 was a necessary part of the deceit. She passed the weekenders’ houses, which had grown larger every year, their expansions and renovations signaling money and permanence. But in between those were the older homes, humble and unadorned, their owners holding fast to a bygone way of life as they watched their town change around them.
The Miller house had never been much to look at, bordering on dingy, but there was a time when a lived-in warmth made it feel welcoming. Now it was weathered and left to decay. One more thing Marlowe had to feel guilty about.
She noticed the old Ford F-150 still in the front yard as she eased onto the shoulder next to the Millers’ mailbox. The truck’s paint had faded to a dull salmon color, but its broad grill still resembled a rakish grin. The front porch of the house looked like it could collapse on itself at any moment. A layer of dirt and grime crept up from the ground onto the exterior walls. Beside the house, among the scant patches of snow, Marlowe spotted a pile of branches that Mr. Miller, an old man now, must have spent all afternoon gathering.
She tapped on the glass panes of the front door and then leaned over to squint through the window. She could see into the hall, which was lined with Damen’s boots, a few pieces of car equipment, and—she could hardly believe it—Nora’s dirty Converse sneakers.
There was a stirring from within, and then Damen’s stooped frame appeared.
He opened the door and regarded Marlowe with a cool gaze.
“Hello, Mr. Miller.” Marlowe forced a smile.
“Marlowe.” Damen opened the door wider and led Marlowe down the hall and into the cramped kitchen. A few mugs and dishes were piled in the sink. Through the door to the living room, Marlowe could see a corner of the lumpy brown couch, a coat tossed over the arm.
Marlowe set a Tupperware container of brownies on the counter. Damen looked puzzled by the gesture, as if the paper-thin facade of kindness was beneath her.
“I know it’s been a while, but I just wanted to check in with you, what with the unfortunate news of the last couple days,” Marlowe said; she saw no point in beating around the bush.
Damen raised his shaggy head, and instead of looking him in the eye, Marlowe gazed at the gray hair that hung behind his ear, and his belly straining against his flannel shirt. He seemed a lifetime away from the neat, well-mannered mechanic he once was.
“Tragic,” he said, considering his words. “But if you’re here to talk about Nora, I’m not interested. I know better than to get my hopes up.”
“Well, let’s talk about you instead. How have you been?” Marlowe suddenly felt stupid. She and Damen hadn’t spoken in ages, and the detectives’ line of questioning made that painfully clear.
Damen threw his arms wide, gesturing around the kitchen, indicating the state of it. “I’ve been alone,” he said curtly.
She could picture his nightly routine: a frozen meal, a cheap beer, and whatever swill was on TV. Or maybe he sat in silence, muttering to himself.
