Page 72 of The Gallagher Place
The cottage was small, only one story, its front door hanging off the hinges. The windows were smashed; jagged shards of glass gleamed in the fading afternoon light. How was it possible she’d never come across the house before? She thought she’d explored every inch of this land, or perhaps that was the hubris of youth.
Somewhere far away and out of sight, the sun was sinking fast. The top of a narrow brick chimney had crumbled, and bricks were scattered on the ground. The place looked deserted, but someone had lived there once. There must have been an old dirt road leading to it ages ago.
Marlowe stepped closer and all went quiet around her. She told herself nothing within the house could shock her—even if there was a bear or a body or Nora herself sitting cross-legged.
The door creaked as she pushed it open and she sucked in a breath. The floorboards had been torn out, revealing a sunken pitfilled with stacks of old newspapers, neatly tied in bundles, arranged like someone had been preserving them. They filled every inch of the space, from where she stood in the doorway over to the crumbling stone fireplace.
She crouched at the nearest pile and brushed away dust, squinting at the faded ink. April 2004. Years after Nora disappeared. Someone had placed them here long after the search ended—someone who was living in the house. Or hiding.
A creak echoed from the sagging roof, then the scurrying of small paws. It couldn’t have been anything larger than a raccoon, but Marlowe bolted anyway, down the slope and back toward the stone wall. Her feet slipped on snow and leaves, branches slapping at her arms, as she scrambled past the car.
As she reached the familiar path and the intersection with the first stone wall, she slowed, gasping for breath, hands on her knees. The woods had dimmed into a fragile twilight. Soon it would be pitch black. But she knew this wall. She had picked over every inch for days on end. It washers.
And then—a sound. A sharp rustle, leaves crunching under deliberate footsteps. Too heavy to be an animal. Marlowe whirled around, her heart in her throat. A figure stepped out from the trees. She could see the edge of a brown jacket and heavy boots.
“Who’s there?” Marlowe stumbled backward and tripped, falling onto her backside.
She pushed herself up into a squat, and then the man was on her, in a blur of movement. She kicked, clawed, but she was pinned beneath a massive torso, his weight crushing her into the dirt. His breath was hot, reeking of beer, his face wild and flushed.
“Where is she?” he snarled.
Marlowe’s vision blurred with tears, but his voice was clear as day. “I don’t know, Damen—I swear.”
Damen Miller shook her, and her head slammed against the ground. Pain shot through her skull. A rock was digging into her back, and she was pinned to the ground again.
“I always knew,” he growled. “Everyone said it wasn’t your family, but I knew. I knew it was you.”
Tears poured from the corners of his eyes as he held her wrists tighter. Marlowe gasped, chest heaving, panic rising like a cresting wave. She had to get free.
She bucked her hips upward and managed to drive her knee into his stomach. He grunted and loosened his hold just enough. Marlowe twisted out from under him, scrambling on her hands and knees, but he grabbed her coat and yanked her backward.
“Please, Mr. Miller,” she sobbed.
He froze. Marlowe sucked in a quivering breath and pulled away. He let her go this time.
That name. “Mr. Miller.” Just as she’d called him as a kid. Nora’s dad. The man who used to drive them to the diner, who bought them ice cream at the county fair.
His hands trembled and he crumpled to his knees, eyes widened in horror at what he had done. Marlowe pulled herself to her feet and staggered a few steps away. When she looked back, Damen Miller’s shoulders had deflated. His gray hair was mussed, and he looked like he didn’t have the energy to stand up. Marlowe was tempted to go help him.
“Go home,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone about this.”
Damen didn’t seem to hear her. He just buried his face in his hands and wept.
Marlowe turned and ran down the slope, back toward the orchard. The sun had set by the time she emerged from the woods. She brushed the frost and leaves off her coat and pulled twigs out of her hair, but her jeans had mud stains on them. The GrayHouse glowed in the distance, each window a perfect square of warm light, illuminating the kitchen, the hearth, the Christmas tree.
It was a sanctuary. A haven. She stumbled forward, heart still pounding, tears hot on her cheeks, and ran for home.
THIRTY-FOUR
The color was drained from Marlowe’s face, and she moved through the living room like a wraith, her coat unzipped but still draped over her shoulders. Murmurs emanated from her father’s study.
“Marlowe, is that you? Are you all right?” her mother called, leaning around the doorframe.
“Yes,” Marlowe replied curtly on her way to the kitchen, while carefully masking a limp.
“Does she want to talk?” She heard her father’s distant, gravelly voice.
“No, not now,” Marlowe said.
