Page 57 of The Gallagher Place
“Marlowe!” Nora’s voice was clear as a bell, ringing out above the water. “Come in already!”
Marlowe sprinted toward the bank, splashing into the water at full speed. She ducked her head under, letting the pristine river water swallow her whole.
SATURDAY
DECEMBER 1, 2018
TWENTY-NINE
Late into the night, in the quiet cocoon of the basement, Marlowe had sipped wine and skimmed news articles about Rick Frasier’s arrest, the headlines blurring as she skipped from one to the next. In the most recent piece, a photo of Harmon Gallagher caught her off guard—an image she hadn’t seen before. There was something in the tilt of his head, the way he angled it slightly as he smiled, that reminded her of Tom. He’d done the same thing, she realized, whenever he spoke to them. Somewhere between the third and fourth headline and the bottom of her glass, the decision took shape. She would go to the wake.
In the morning, she turned down Henry’s invitation to get a Christmas tree with the kids and instead sipped coffee in the basement until noon. Then she dressed in a black sweater and slacks and drove to Harmon Gallagher’s mother’s house. The details had been in one of the articles she’d read.
On the way to the wake, she considered whether the Gallagher house might still be standing if Peter Gallagher had inherited the land instead of his aunt Caroline. Pete and Layla would have moved onto the old farm, and Harmon, a toddler then, would have spent his childhood there, walking the fields, tending cows, ducking inand out of the big red barn. Planting hay each spring, mowing in the summer, hauling bales up into the loft. Eventually, his skin would have become brown and weathered, his limbs wiry and strong with the resilience of old farmers. A quiet life, hard but honest.
Marlowe was certain Harmon would’ve chosen that over what had transpired—the debt, the desperation, the sudden end. Over being bludgeoned in the back of the head by Rick Frasier, who, according to one article, might have been bipolar—something his lawyers were already suggesting for leniency.
At a red light, Marlowe tightened her grip on the steering wheel, forcing herself to not think about other images in the article—the Gray House, tall and stately, looming in one frame, and Nora’s sophomore yearbook photo in another. Nora’s hair was straightened and brushed, her smile bright but strained, as though the photographer was moments from getting on her nerves.
It seemed like every few years, someone resurfaced a mystery of a bubbly teenage girl who disappeared without a trace. Marlowe lived in mortal dread of the day that someone made a true crime documentary about Nora. Or worse, a podcast.
At least one article stuck to the basics:The site where Harmon Gallagher’s body was found is also the location of another tragic event. In June 1998, local teenager Nora Miller disappeared after an evening with friends on the property.
There was no mention of the Fishers or the suspected role they played. The comment section was less restrained, however.
Last night, she’d scrolled through every post, all the condolences for the Gallagher family, the exclamations of shock and horror at such violence in this quiet, beautiful part of the countryside, and the few posts by those with a rant against hunting regulations in the area.
But three specific comments had seared themselves into her mind, resurfacing now as she sat in the idling car.
That girl was a travesty. I remember hearing about it and just knowing that some stuff got covered up. The so-called “friends” were rich, and we all know money can cover anything.
Farther down:I still pray for Nora. Something about that case never sat right. Hope someone gets to the bottom of it one day.
And the final one:Wait, they never found this girl? Not even the body?? Smells fishy to me.
Marlowe bit her lower lip hard and hit the gas as the light turned green. She hated those people. Anonymous, gleeful in their speculation, reveling in the scandal. But today, she was going to get answers.
She pulled up to the small house, just past an old horse barn, and cut the engine. As she sat behind the wheel for a long moment, her breath became shallow and unsteady. She asked herself, Was she going to be brave, or was she going to run away?
She knew what Nora would do.
Buttoning her coat all the way up to her chin, Marlowe stepped quietly from the car, careful to close the door softly behind her.
She hoped it would be crowded. Crowds meant anonymity. But did Harmon have many friends? He seemed to be a bit of a loner.
When she opened the front door, relief washed over Marlowe. The narrow hallway and small living room were packed. People flock to tragedy like moths to a flame, and this was no exception. Harmon was young and he had been murdered, and everyone was curious.
Marlowe peeked into the living room and spotted a knot of older guests congregating around a heavyset woman—Harmon’s mother, Layla. She clutched a mug and stared blankly, her swollenjowls marked with purple veins. Marlowe quickly turned toward the cramped kitchen, where the counter was laden with various dishes, most of them some variation of mac and cheese.
She grabbed a flimsy plate and scooped on a few carrot sticks and crackers, trying to look natural.
Everyone else formed tight circles, talking quietly, shoulders leaning in. Marlowe stood alone, acutely aware of how out of place she looked. She glanced toward the stairs, where people in Harmon’s age range gathered. His old school friends or hunting buddies perhaps. She didn’t want them; they were too young to know Pete and too ignorant to help. She needed someone older, someone who remembered.
Facing Layla felt impossible, so she abandoned the plate in the kitchen and slipped out the back door. The porch was small and weather-beaten. A thin layer of snow dusted the lawn, fresh from the morning. In a corner of the yard, a couple shared a cigarette, shifting their weight to stay warm. They gave her a curious glance before she rounded the side of the house, out of view.
“I’m sorry, excuse me,” Marlowe said.
The woman glanced up, her age hitting Marlowe like a jolt of electricity. Deep wrinkles folded into her sagging skin, her features drawn inward toward a puckered mouth. She wore a bulky black wool coat, half unbuttoned, and a scarf in a sickly shade of puce. The cigarette between her fingers trembled, held as though it had been there forever.
