Page 71 of The Gallagher Place
Marlowe shook her head.
“There’s a house in the woods. Past that rusty car. If you follow the old stone wall. I know you never walked that far. It was old and run-down, but someone was living in it back then. Nate and I found it and poked around. I know someone was living there.”
“And what about Enzo?”
“He knew, and it made him nervous. Like the bear,” Henry said. “He was worried about us, so he took walks at night. Just to keep an eye out.”
It sounded like a story spun too many times, but Henry seemed to believe every word of it, and she felt a pang of sadness as she watched him lose his grip.
“I told Brierley about the man,” Henry continued. “I told him. But he thought I was making it up. Enzo said they’d never believe me. So I shut up. It only made us look worse.”
The hired help, their protector, with his charming accent and warm smile. Enzo told Marlowe to drink the whiskey, so she drank it. And Enzo told Henry to keep quiet, so he did it.
“So you think this man took Nora?”
“I don’t know. I never knew. But it wasn’t us. It wasn’t Enzo.”
“They think it was.”
“Of course they do,” Henry scoffed. “They want a clean ending. Villains in a big house. It makes a good story.”
“They arrested him, Henry.” Marlowe rose to her feet. “They must have something.”
“Circumstantial,” he snapped. “The boots, the bracelet. It’s thin. They can’t charge him on that. Enzo will have a lawyer with him soon. I can’t even venture a guess as to why they want to talk to Nate again. This is basically harassment. But Nate’s gone willingly to answer their questions, and he can leave at any time. They won’t get anything out of either of them.”
“But is there something? Something you don’t know.”
Henry was silent, his head falling. “I don’t know. Maybe Nate or Enzo hid something from me. But they’re family. And I’d never believe they were responsible for this.”
His curly hair fell over his forehead, like a sheep’s wool hanging over its brow. Finally, he stood up. “They can hold him for twenty-four hours. I need to be there when he gets out.”
“I’m going with you.” Stephanie emerged from the kitchen, clutching her phone and her coat. “Frank and Glory are on their way home.”
In an instant, they were gone, and Marlowe was left with her own spiraling thoughts. Henry was loyal. That was why he had swallowed the story of a man in the woods—hook, line, and sinker. That was why he was driving to Poughkeepsie to catch Enzo when he stumbled out of the questioning room.
If what Henry said was true, then someone else was out there. The decision came sharply to her. Heart pounding, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. One way or another, she needed to see that house. She needed to see if Henry’s story held any truth.
Her breath clouded the air as she cut through the apple orchard, boots crunching over the brittle crust of snow. By the time she cleared the orchard and was past the bottom of the North Field, she was winded but didn’t stop. A narrow path snaked into the woods, steep and uneven, carved with streams and hidden roots. The incline would take her to the main stone wall in twenty minutes, then another trek along it would bring her to the rusted car. Uphill. No path once she had to follow the wall, just snow-covered brambles and rocks.
She checked the time: just past two. Not long before sunset.
Marlowe’s legs ached, and her lungs were raw. She always pridedherself on not obsessing over exercise like her sisters-in-law, but now her lack of cardio was punishing her. Stephanie could probably sprint this path. Breath came in short, shallow gasps, and her thighs burned as she pushed up the slope and reached the first stone wall, the one they had scavenged rocks for all summer. A right turn would take her to the top of the North Field and then to another path that intersected with the woods just up the road from the Gray House. That was the route Nate used for the wheelbarrow loaded with stones, hauling them across the street, behind the cow pasture, and straight toward the Flats. Not an easy distance, but Nate was strong, with toned arms and long legs. Only Marlowe was delusional enough to think Nora hadn’t noticed.
Marlowe veered left, toward the wall that crawled deeper into the woods, higher up the ridge. Prickers from overgrown bushes clawed at her coat as she climbed. There was a time when it felt like a short distance, but now it seemed to drag on interminably.
When she reached the split in the wall, where one branch of it veered deeper into the trees, she paused. The snow thinned under the forest canopy, but the wall was harder to see now. She gazed down the line and saw that in some places, the stones had completely disappeared. The trees watched her as she scanned the path ahead. Somewhere beyond that wall was the car. And past that, the house.
She thought of Enzo slumped in a rigid chair in Poughkeepsie, desperately confused. Nate would be sitting with his arms crossed, leveling the detectives with a bland stare. If he knew anything, it would remain locked deep inside him. But Enzo? He’d crumble under the pressure. If he knew anything, he might let it slip without even realizing.
Marlowe stumbled over a root and caught herself against the wall. Again, she was struck with the thought that her memory was failing her. Was this really the way to the car? Or maybe she’devinced an astounding lack of curiosity, a desire to never leave her safe harbor so strong she had erased the route from her mind.
Then she saw it—the rusted car, blackened and rising from the patches of snow.
It didn’t seem to have aged a day since she last saw it, though the forest had filled in around it. The wheels were buried now, swallowed by dirt and snow and debris.
She circled the hood, hands brushing the cold, dented metal. In the summer sun, she and Nora had once crammed into the front seat, laughing.
Past the car. That was what Henry had said. Marlowe checked her watch again: nearly three thirty now. She had to move quickly. The trail beyond the car was barely visible, but she followed it. The incline decreased to a gentle slope for a while, and then, tucked between two pine trees, a roof sagging under the weight of the latest snowfall, and the lichen-covered siding of a house.
