by Sara Shepard
Her words sent a shiver down Aster’s spine. “It sounds more like you might have killed Steven, not Poppy.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “I wish. What your cousin did was brilliant, really—I would never have thought to just push him in the water and make it look like a drowning.” Her eyes sparkled. “My schemes were always a bit more . . . graphic.”
Aster stared out the window at the Hudson far below. “B-but why would Poppy kill Steven?” Poppy had just been promoted, after all. She’d met James that summer; not long after the party, they’d become engaged. She had so much to live for . . . and so much to lose.
Elizabeth took a long drag and blew a smoke ring. “Perhaps you aren’t the only one in the family with secrets, my dear Aster.”
“So you’re saying Poppy was covering something up?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Maybe. I guess now we’ll never know.”
Aster stood, her legs shaky. “I’m going now,” she announced.
“Have a fun weekend with the family,” Elizabeth said, somehow managing to make it sound like a dirty word. “You can fix this mess of a spreadsheet on Monday. Oh, and Aster?” she added. “I’d keep our little chat a secret if I were you.”
13
To Corinne, it always seemed as though the compound in Meriweather emerged through a thick wall of mist like a castle in a fairy tale, and it was no different when she and her cousins rolled up the driveway that evening for the bachelorette weekend. The mansion gleamed in the setting sun. The air smelled of salt and flowers. Brightly colored daffodils exploded from oversize planters. Someone had hung a banner over the front doorway that read “Happy Bachelorette, Corinne.”
Corinne felt pained. “Guys, you shouldn’t have.”
“Actually, we didn’t.” Aster shrugged.
“Oh.”
Aster looked at Corinne for a beat too long, then hefted her monogrammed duffel over her shoulder. Something about Aster seemed off today—there were circles under her eyes and a drawn look to her face, and she’d barely said anything on the flight up.
Maybe she was distraught that they were going to Meriweather without Poppy. Or maybe her abrupt change of lifestyle was taking its toll. Corinne wanted to reach out to Aster, but who was she to dole out advice? She’d just slept with an ex-boyfriend, weeks before her wedding. On the floor of the St. Regis wine cellar, she added to herself, as though that was what made it so shocking.
She’d walked home that night, stumbling up Fifth Avenue in her heels. The sidewalk was finally starting to cool, but the summer air was sticky and warm. What had she looked like to the doorman when she’d staggered through the lobby? Upstairs, she’d found Dixon asleep in his khakis and polo, a beer on the nightstand, lights on. Had he been waiting up for her?
But, as she undressed and showered, she couldn’t stop thinking about Will, about his hands on every part of her. She shuddered. No matter how hard she scrubbed her skin, she could still feel where he’d touched her. The worst part was, she wanted it to happen again.
No, you don’t, she willed silently. Or at least she thought she’d said it to herself—when she looked up, Aster, Rowan, and Natasha stood at the front door, staring at her in anticipation, as if waiting for her to finish her sentence. She smiled at them. If she kept pretending nothing was wrong, maybe she could convince herself it was true.
Fake it till you make it, she could hear Poppy telling her on her first day of work back in the city. If you’re confident, they’ll forget about your name and trust you know what you’re doing. Hell, maybe you even do. She’d winked at Corinne—they both knew she was more than qualified for her job. She was well traveled and spoke several languages, but the last year had rattled her. While everyone thought she was in Hong Kong, she’d been holed up in Virginia, keeping the biggest secret of her life.
Now Corinne grabbed her bags, punched in the key code at the front door, and walked into the house. The foyer smelled like Lemon Pledge and lavender; even though the estate was mostly unoccupied during the off-season, the family kept a staff of four year-round. There was a bottle of wine waiting in the ice bucket, and a marble tray bearing cheese and crackers sat on the coffee table. There was a loud meow, and Kalvin, the estate’s cat, slunk out from a back room and rubbed up against Corinne’s ankles.
Corinne petted his orange-and-white fur, feeling a pang. Poppy had found Kalvin years ago on the side of the road near the family’s farm and flown him here in her dad’s private plane; they’d taken turns feeding him milk and bringing him to their beds. In fact, everything in this place—the velvet chair Poppy had curled up in with a book, the long curtains Poppy had hidden behind in games of hide-and-seek, the sweeping staircase Poppy had walked down on the day of her wedding—reminded Corinne of her cousin. She glanced around, noticing Rowan and Aster’s drawn expressions. They were probably thinking about Poppy too.
“Okay, ladies,” she said to her cousins and sister, shakily guiding everyone to the sitting room. “First things first. These are for you.” She gestured to a bag she’d brought, full of wrapped gifts.
“That’s so nice of you,” Rowan said, her voice oddly melancholy, as though she were going to burst into tears.
Natasha sank down into a lounge chair. Having her here was jarring. When had they last been together—aside from funerals? A pang struck Corinne, as she remembered how cute Natasha used to be. One year, when Natasha was about seven, she’d decided she wanted to be an Olympic figure skater when she grew up. All of them, even Poppy, who was much older by then, put on fluffy skirts, took off their socks, and skated on the wood floor as her competitors, though it was unwritten that Natasha would win. “A perfect ten!” the cousins had crowed to the little girl, smothering her with kisses.
Now Natasha ripped into the package. “Pretty!” she whooped as she unveiled the pashmina wrap underneath. “Just like we wore for Poppy’s wedding.”
“That’s what gave me the idea,” Corinne said shyly. Poppy had gotten married at Meriweather four years ago. They’d sat in this very room before her wedding, and she had given each of them similar gifts. It was a December wedding, so those wraps were fur-lined. She’d also given the girls fur muffs and hats; they’d all boarded a horse-drawn carriage to go to the Old Whaling Church on the main island. The ground had been covered with crisp, untouched snow, the stars twinkled in the sky, and the church was already decorated for Christmas, silver and gold balls everywhere, the whole altar filled with amaryllises. After Poppy and James got married, they’d gone on a second sleigh ride back to the house, singing Christmas carols. Corinne and Dixon, solidly back together by then, had huddled close to keep warm.
Aster’s eyes filled with tears. Rowan dropped the wrap in the box, her face twisted with pain. Corinne tried to breathe in, but it felt as if there were a load of bricks on her chest. She looked to the doorway, picturing Poppy stepping through, crowing, Ha, ha! It was all a joke!
Aster grabbed the wine bottle and poured four glasses. She picked up one and held it in the air. “A toast to Poppy. I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.”
Corinne chose a glass from the remaining three. “To Poppy.”
Everyone sipped quietly, the strange mood settling around them again. Corinne sucked in her stomach, hoping everyone would cheer up. Then Natasha’s phone, which was sitting on the coffee table, bleated. On instinct, Corinne glanced down. A familiar 212 number was on the screen.
Aster was looking at the phone too. “Agent Foley?”
Natasha grabbed the phone and silenced it. “She wants to interview me. I wish she’d just drop it.”
Aster flinched. “You haven’t done your interview yet?”
Natasha shrugged. “Things keep coming up.”
“But everyone else has talked to her already,” Corinne said softly, irritated by Natasha’s cavalier attitude, as if finding Poppy’s murderer was just a big inconvenience.
Natasha turned her phone over. “To be honest, the FBI seems kind of useless.
Don’t you think? They don’t even have a single suspect.”
Everyone exchanged a glance.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Rowan said.
Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. “What about James?” Kalvin jumped on Natasha’s lap and began kneading at her legs. “You always hear that the husband is the first suspect? Maybe James had a motive.”
“James didn’t do it,” Rowan said, dismissing the idea out of hand.
“I agree,” Corinne said. James seemed so devoted to Poppy, so proud of all she’d accomplished. One time, when they were all at Meriweather, Poppy was being featured on the cover of Time magazine. James had gotten up at six in the morning to drive to the mainland’s newsstand to buy the first copies the day it came out, even though the family had received advance copies the day before. He was so excited when he pulled back into the driveway.
Aster crossed her arms over her chest. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Yes, maybe we should go through pictures?” Corinne said loudly. She wanted to choose some photos of the family to display at the wedding. The wedding. Even in Corinne’s mind, she couldn’t call it her wedding.
“How can you be so sure?” Natasha challenged, looking at Rowan. “Unless . . . you were with him?”
Shame flashed across Rowan’s face. “As a matter of fact, I was, okay?” she blurted out. “He was at my apartment. In my bed. Are you happy now?” Rowan hid her face in her hands.
“Oh my God,” Corinne heard herself say. The room was silent except for Kalvin’s purrs. She met her sister’s gaze; for once, she looked as shocked as Corinne felt. She cleared her throat and looked at Rowan. “I mean, how did it happen?”
With her head still down, Rowan explained how James had come over, convinced Poppy was having an affair. “We were so drunk, and one thing led to another,” she said at the end. “And when I got to the office and Poppy was dead—I thought it was my fault. I thought James told her . . . and she jumped.”
Corinne remembered how Rowan had seemed almost relieved to hear that Poppy was murdered. She couldn’t imagine the guilt she must be carrying around with her. And she couldn’t judge Rowan for sleeping with James. Not after what she’d done. You should tell them, Corinne thought, the notion pinging into her head.
Rowan’s shoulders heaved up and down. “I don’t know what to think right now. I just wish . . .” She trailed off, her gaze toward the stairs.
“Is it going to continue?” Corinne dared to ask.
Rowan stared at her with round eyes. She blinked once, then looked at the ground. “It happened again,” she admitted, cringing as she said the words. “But if Poppy was with someone else, maybe . . . oh, I don’t know.” She shook her head. Corinne could see two ideas warring in her mind: that what she’d done was wrong and unforgivable, but that if Poppy had done it first, then maybe . . .
“Do you really think Poppy was having an affair?” Corinne asked.
Rowan nodded, explaining the reason for James’s suspicion. She also told them about her old assistant noticing unusual appointments in her calendar. “She was sneaking around,” she said. “Telling lies. I don’t know.”
“Do we have any idea who Poppy was with?” Natasha asked, her brow furrowed.
Rowan drained the rest of her wine. “No clue. I had no idea anything was going on.”
“Me, neither,” Corinne offered.
“Definitely not,” Aster agreed.
“But say she was having an affair,” Natasha piped up, gripping the sides of her chair. “Isn’t that even more of a reason to suspect James? He thought she was having an affair. Maybe he even caught her. There could be more to the story.”
Rowan stared at her hard, her mouth small. “He’s telling the truth.”
“Maybe you just think that because you’re with him now,” Natasha argued. “You have to look at the big picture.”
The voice in Corinne’s head grew louder. You should tell them. You can’t just sit here, pretending you’re perfect.
Rowan shook her head vehemently. “I left the house before James did. By the time I got to the office, Poppy was dead.”
Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, did anyone see him leave?”
Rowan leaped up from the chair and paced over to the window that overlooked the sea. “He didn’t kill Poppy, okay, Natasha? He just didn’t.”
“But—”
Corinne heard the voice again, and this time it was booming. Tell them, it said. Tell them, tell them, tell them. “I cheated on Dixon,” she blurted, just to silence it.
All heads turned. Aster’s mouth dropped open, her face like a charades clue for the word shocked. Rowan blinked hard, some of the color leaving her cheeks. Natasha’s eyebrows knitted together.
“With who?” Rowan asked, walking back from the window.
Corinne took a long sip from the glass in front of her. “Will Coolidge.” It was torture even to utter his name.
Everyone just stared blankly. It was Natasha who spoke first. “The guy from Coxswain? His name was in your journal.”
Corinne gritted her teeth. Natasha must have really studied that Blessed and the Cursed post to have found that. “That’s right,” she said quietly. “I met him the summer Dixon and I broke up.” She cleared her throat. “Only Poppy knew about us.”
She peeked at her family, a hot flare of shame in her cheeks. Rowan looked stunned. Natasha had her arms crossed over her chest. And Aster was blinking rapidly, as though her vision had blurred and she was waiting for the world to right itself again.
“Now he’s a chef, doing the food for our wedding. Dixon couldn’t come to the wine pairing, and it just . . .” She trailed off. Then she looked at her lap, fearing the expressions on everyone’s face. “I don’t know what happened.”
A small hand touched her knee. Aster was staring at her. “It’s okay. We all make mistakes.”
Corinne swallowed hard. “But I don’t,” she snapped, her eyes filling again.
Rowan returned to her seat and poured another glass of wine. “Okay, forgive me for saying this, but are you sure you want to get married? Are you sure Dixon’s the person for you?”
“Of course he is,” Corinne answered. “It was just cold feet. I had to tell you guys to get it off my chest. But now it’s fine. It’s over.” She tried to take a breath, but it still felt like a pile of bricks on her chest.
Natasha leaned back on the couch. “Why did you and Will break up?”
The memory washed over her like a wave. It was the night of the end-of-summer party, the same night Steven Barnett died. Corinne stood barefoot on the cold marble floor in the upstairs Jack-and-Jill bathroom that straddled her and Poppy’s bedrooms. Everyone else was downstairs on the patio, celebrating Poppy’s promotion, but Corinne had retreated upstairs for privacy. She unwrapped a pregnancy test from its plastic and stared at it for a long time.
Her head had been spinning all day, her stomach had turned at the chicken salad the cook had prepared for lunch, her breasts had felt swollen for a week, and her period was late—really late. Earlier, she had taken the car out to a drugstore across the island, intending to purchase the test, but she’d been so freaked out about bringing it to the register that she’d slipped it into the pocket of her cashmere cardigan and walked out without paying. In one summer, she’d become a girl she didn’t recognize.
She sat on the toilet, peed on the stick, and then stood up, the test wand in her hand. Slowly the dye filled the result window. The control line appeared, and the second line popped up immediately, the pink dye cheerful and bright. Corinne’s heart pounded. Her ears felt wet and full, as they always did when she felt she might faint. Her fingers had started to shake. Stupid, stupid girl.
A particularly loud wave crashed against the rocks, and Corinne looked up. “I had this plan for my life. And everything had always gone according to my plan.” Until that summer, she added to herself. “Will wasn’t part of the plan. So Dixon a
nd I got back together and I went to Hong Kong for work.” Acid filled Corinne’s throat, thinking of the secret she still couldn’t say aloud. Of what happened next. “Poppy told him I was leaving. I was too busy to do it myself,” she lied.
Aster was staring at her. “I have something crazy to tell you guys too. It’s about my boss, Elizabeth. Steven Barnett’s wife. She told me something . . . odd. Something about Poppy.” She smoothed her dress. “Elizabeth said she saw Poppy standing over Steven’s body the night of the party. She said Poppy killed him.”
A jolt went through Corinne. “What? That’s insane.”
“Ridiculous,” Rowan agreed.
“Well, Elizabeth seemed sure of it. And when I asked her what her motive was, Elizabeth made a reference to some sort of secret in the family. Something she thought Poppy was keeping. She said not to tell anyone, but I mean, you should know.”
Natasha coughed loudly.
Rowan wrinkled her nose. “Steven drowned. There was no secret. And Poppy’s not a murderer.”
“Seriously,” Corinne said shakily.
Poppy killing someone? It would be like finding out Edith drowned puppies in the bathtub. It simply wasn’t something a Saybrook would do. But then she thought about that summer, and the year she’d stayed away from her family. The baby she’d had in secret and given away. The night she’d spent with Will. A Saybrook wouldn’t do any of those things, either.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Aster suggested. But then she frowned. “Poppy would have said something to the police, though.”
Natasha tapped her foot. “What if Poppy did kill Steven? What if his murder had to do with Poppy’s death?”
Aster cocked her head. “How?”
“Well . . .” Natasha thought for a moment. “What if someone close to Steven saw it happen? And what if that person wanted revenge?”
“Like who?” Rowan asked.
Everyone stared at one another blankly. Natasha stood up. “I don’t know, but this seems like a really important piece of information. We need to tell someone.”
