Page 87 of The Gallagher Place
TUESDAY
DECEMBER 4, 2018
FORTY-ONE
The snow exceeded forecasts, muting the noise of the world around the Gray House. Seven inches had fallen overnight. Marlowe lay in bed, listening to the children’s ecstatic yelps above her. She waited until they had rushed through breakfast and tumbled outside for sledding.
Then she rose, dressed, and gathered up Brierley’s notes—his musings circling so close to the truth and yet never quite landing on it—and slid them back into their envelope. A sleepless night had left her with one resolution: Whatever she did, she would do it today. No room for someone else to make the choice for her.
Upstairs, Nate sat with a book by the fireplace.
“I’m going out to do some shopping.” The lie came smoothly; her blithe tone might have convinced anyone else.
Nate only nodded. “Have fun. Hope it’s not too crowded.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “I’m not going to beg.”
Marlowe yanked her coat zipper up. “I wouldn’t appreciate it if you did.”
“The Gray House,” he said. “It will be yours, you know. He’s going to leave it to you.”
There it was. The offer on the table. Just as her father had once taught her when negotiating a contract—if you’re prepared to walk,they’ll offer you more. It was the only way to get what you were worth.
She saw the years stretched before her. She had time. She was healthy, after all.
“All or nothing,” Nate said. He picked up his book, eyes already drifting back to the page. “Good luck with the shopping.”
Marlowe turned on her heel and stepped into the cold. The snow lay in drifts, crystalline and untouched. The sky had cleared into a brilliant blue. Some roads wouldn’t be plowed, but once she reached the main route, she would be fine.
She cranked the heat in the car and pulled out of the driveway.
As she drove to Poughkeepsie, her mind wandered. Her mother would disapprove. Glory would tell her to focus on the road, on the black ice waiting to send even experienced drivers into tailspins. It was about an hour’s drive to Poughkeepsie. Brierley’s notes lay beside her in the passenger seat. She had to return them. If she didn’t, Ariel would come to fetch them, and Marlowe no longer had any use for Ariel’s house calls. But she wasn’t yet sure if she would hand over everything. The key to the entire case. It wouldn’t take long. A simple instruction: Go to the stone wall by the river. All they needed was the body.
Or she could outline the entire story: The details of the final year of Nora’s life. The message passed from Henry to Nate to Frank to Glory to Enzo. The truth about Nora and Henry, and the pregnancy that no one could agree was real or not.
If it had been real, there could have been a child. A lump rose in Marlowe’s throat as she imagined a child with Henry’s curls and Nora’s blue eyes. She pushed the image aside. Either way, that child was long past saving.
But who exactly would be saved if she told Ariel the truth?
Not her parents.
Not Marlowe. If she spoke, she would be dragged down with the rest of the family. She would lose the Gray House. The land. The river. She would lose everything.
And what about Nora? What good would vengeance do now?
A small part of her, somewhere deep down, was mad at Nora. For the betrayal, even though she had lived all these years without the pain of knowing. And it wasn’t just Nora. Henry had betrayed her. Nate. Her parents. Enzo. Every single one of them. She could betray them in return, or she could choose another kind of revenge.
Nora had done nothing wrong. She had just been a desperate girl trying to shape a life.
So why couldn’t Marlowe give her justice?
Something twisted inside her, warping her breath. Her head spun. She scanned the signs up ahead. The turn onto the Taconic State Parkway was close. A Stewart’s loomed in the distance, and Marlowe pulled into the parking lot. She sat still, hands gripping the wheel, waiting for the lightheadedness to pass.
When she turned to the passenger seat, she saw the faint outline. She inhaled, filling in the gaps with every detail she could think of. Nora appeared in Marlowe’s mind—not the fifteen-year-old girl frozen in time, nor the thirty-six-year-old she would have been now—but late twenties, the age when she would have been most alive, most herself. Her blond hair was darker but still gleamed; her clothes fit well.
“The whole house?” Nora raised an eyebrow. “Andthe land?”
“There’d be a fail-safe,” Marlowe said. “A clause in the will. A way to push me out if I turned on them down the road.”
“But you would own the majority? The house, the barn, the river?”
