Page 63 of The Gallagher Place
“And that’s what you told the detectives this time?” Marlowe asked. “Because you think Nate might have done something?”
“I told the detectives about the tension between Nate and Nora. Described the night, or what I remember. How she left. And the moment we realized something was wrong.”
Just as Marlowe remembered it, save the minute details.
“So, I mean, we both know Nate was right there,” Mike said. “And that’s why I never said anything back then about what he really thought of Nora. But, like I said, it’s haunted me ever since.”
“I understand,” Marlowe said. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I know she meant a lot to you. Anyone could see that, even a stupid college kid,” Mike said. “I told the detectives that as well.”
Marlowe nodded, losing herself to the past, then forced herself to speak. “Yes. She did mean a lot to me.”
“Anyway, good luck with everything.” He didn’t know how to end the conversation, but it was clear he was finished talking.
“What’s your theory?” Marlowe pressed. “If you had to guess, what do you think happened? Who do you think took her?”
“I don’t know your family,” Mike said. “Really, I never truly knew any of you.”
“But you must have a theory. Everyone does.”
“Enzo.” The name fell out of Mike’s mouth, as if he had been waiting the whole phone call to say it. “I know he was your nanny or handyman, or whatever, and he was nice enough, but that’s the guy I think of when I think of that night. And this time I told the detectives that.”
Enzo. The one who had been on the premises, but not in the kitchen. The one who would have done anything for Marlowe and her family.
And he was obvious, wasn’t he? To Mike—so removed from everything, so ignorant about the bonds that connected her family to outsiders like Enzo and Nora, satellite planets pulled into the fold—to Mike, Enzo made sense. To Marlowe—wrapped up in all the weekends spent with Enzo, all the long summers at the GrayHouse—nothing made sense anymore.
Marlowe’s children’s book illustrations veered toward the whimsical—she couldn’t help it, when they were all based, in one way or another, on the Gray House. The rolling hills, the hayfields, the red barn, the ever-burning hearth—they all lent themselves easily to stories set in fairy-tale lands populated by magical creatures: wood fairies, gnomes, elves. And in such places, there were always guardians, someone who lived in the eaves, who traded protection for porridge and chased foxes from henhouses, keeping the children safe and warm, behind glowing windows.
Enzo. He was the loyal protector. More than hired help, he was family. Enzo would have shooed the fox away, made sure the hens were fed, the children safe.
Marlowe had always known Enzo would never hurt them. She’d believed that included Nora, who should’ve been under his protection too.
After hanging up the phone, Marlowe forced herself to reconsider, to search the corners of her memory for Enzo, for any little thing she might have missed before. Enzo used to live in this very basement room. He’d been quiet over the last few days, saying the cold had seeped into his bones, and he’d spent most of his time tucked away in his bedroom or sitting in the armchair under several blankets.
The truth was, Marlowe knew next to nothing concrete about Enzo’s life before them. Like any self-absorbed child, she never asked. He had a funny accent and told stories about Italian vineyards and Parisian streets, but she couldn’t say whether these were facts or not. It was as if he’d simply appeared one day, summoned to care for her and her brothers.
Surely her parents had done their due diligence—background checks, references. But what could those reveal? Not the thingsthat mattered. Not if Enzo had a taste for young women, if he’d once pursued a seventeen-year-old Italian girl or admired girls from park benches in Paris.
Marlowe stood in the center of the basement, the mug of eggnog in her hand. She drained it, the warmth cutting the chill in her chest. The room had been renovated fifteen years ago—new floors, windows, closets, a bigger bathroom. When Enzo didn’t need it anymore, Marlowe moved in, turning his place into her own. Enzo retired to his tiny apartment in Queens. He was now a guest at the Gray House, relegated to the spare room upstairs.
Marlowe’s stomach turned. While they’d been shouting Nora’s name into the darkness, had she been right here all along?
Still, she couldn’t think of a rational motive. Mike seemed to believe both Nate and Enzo had contempt for Nora. Enzo had, now and then, called Nora a hellion and chastised her impulsive nature. But Marlowe never thought there was any real malice in his voice.
Did Enzo know about the stealing? He might have blamed Nora, seen her as a bad influence on sweet, naïve Marlowe. She could almost hear his voice, sneering:The little thief. That wicked girl.He didn’t know that Marlowe had basically given her those things.
It wouldn’t have taken much. Enzo was strong back then. Years of carpentry and vineyard work kept him fit. The basement had the side door. He could have crossed the lawn, taken her inside without a sound.
Maybe he saw Nora as a threat. Or had it been something darker? A twisted desire. Had he imagined her and Nate together and wanted her for himself? Marlowe pressed her knuckles against her mouth, still damp from her last gulp.
Marlowe had always believed that someone from outside theirorbit had committed the crime. A stalker. A local weirdo. A stranger with a grudge. It had seemed like the most logical explanation at the time.
Had she been an idiot all along? A fool who couldn’t follow a straight line. How many things could Marlowe simply miss? How many times could Marlowe ask a question, have a drink while she waited for the answer, only to get muddled all over again? But she was seeing clearly now, wasn’t she?
Maybe the villain wasn’t a fox in the briar. The villain was the one who was sworn to protect it.
THIRTY-ONE
