The Heiresses

by Sara Shepard

  “Do you know what he was talking about—specifically, I mean?”

  Elizabeth looked at her for a long time. Aster flinched, anticipating a huge blow, but Elizabeth just stood up and removed the towel from her head. Her skin glowed. Her wet hair streamed down her shoulders. She reached for a glass of water on the table and took a long, slow sip. “You know, now that you mention it, there was a girl who seemed like she’d do anything for him,” she said.

  “Do you know where she worked? Or her name, maybe?”

  Elizabeth balled the towel in her hand. “I never asked. But I wouldn’t waste your time, honey—I don’t think my husband’s trashy ex-girlfriend killed your cousin. Personally, I think it was an inside job.”

  “Inside . . . what?”

  Elizabeth smiled mildly. “Inside the family.” Then she gently took Aster’s arm and led her to the door. “Time to go now.”

  “What do you mean?” Aster asked as the doors swooshed open. “Why would you say that?”

  Elizabeth practically shoved her outside. “My shrink is coming in a few minutes.” She tossed Aster’s hat to her chest. “My advice, dear? Go ask your father.” She winked. “You can’t be daddy’s girl forever.”

  21

  Monday morning, Rowan absent-mindedly bumped her bruised knee into a newly built cubicle and then burst into tears. It didn’t even hurt that badly; it just felt like another mishap in a string of very, very bad luck.

  “God, it’s so creepy,” Jessica, one of the paralegals, whispered as Rowan trudged to her office. “Two Saybrooks within weeks of each other.”

  “Natasha still hasn’t woken up,” Callie, a second paralegal, chimed in. “They’re totally cursed.”

  “Is she still in that hospital in Massachusetts?” Jessica stirred her coffee, the spoon clanking against ceramic.

  “No, I heard they moved her somewhere in the city. Lenox Hill, maybe?”

  Beth Israel, Rowan wanted to correct them as she sat down at her desk. Natasha had been moved there a few days before so she’d be closer to her family. Rowan had visited her yesterday, sitting by her bedside and staring at Natasha’s placid face. A few times her eyelids had fluttered, and she’d turned her head slightly, as if she was rousing from a dream. Rowan stood halfway in anticipation. She will wake up, and I will get the truth out of her, she’d thought. But then Natasha’s features had stilled and she seemed to slip back into that dark, unknowable well, her secret locked inside.

  Rowan put her head in her hands. It wasn’t just Natasha she was upset about. It was something far more trivial: heartbreak. But it was ridiculous. Of course James had cheated on her. She’d had a front-row seat for his cheating dozens of times. She’d always laughed at those stupid girls who thought there was something real between them. But she was the stupidest girl of all. She’d thought he’d changed, that Poppy had made him different. But he’d cheated on Poppy with her. What else had he done?

  Taking a deep breath, she rolled her chair backward, opened a file drawer, and found a folder marked “Saybrook–Kenwood.” Inside was the prenuptial agreement between Poppy and James that she’d helped draft years ago.

  She leafed through it slowly. Sure enough, James would receive nothing of Poppy’s estate if they divorced. Not a cent of her massive trust. Not a dollar of her sizable earnings as Saybrook’s president. Rowan had argued with Poppy on this when they were putting the prenup together. “This is overly brutal,” she’d warned Poppy.

  Still, Poppy had been firm: the family had worked too hard for any of their fortune to just be given away. Rowan had been the bearer of bad news to James, but he’d taken it well. “I’m not with Poppy for her money,” he said simply.

  But if Poppy died—when Poppy died—he got it all. It wasn’t unthinkable that a cheating husband would want to make a new life for himself. It wasn’t implausible that someone would do anything to make that a reality, either.

  Would James?

  Rowan rubbed her eyes. Of course he wouldn’t. Besides, James had an alibi: Rowan’s apartment. She’d left before he had, and by the time she got downtown, Poppy had already jumped.

  The air-conditioning whirred to life, blowing a stray piece of paper off the vent. Rowan opened her e-mail and tried to work, but her mind was still humming. She felt unsatisfied.

  She returned to that first morning she and James were together. What if James hadn’t remained at her apartment, as she’d thought? What if he’d slipped out when she wasn’t looking? She’d stopped for coffee that morning. Waited in that long line, then ate in the park. He could have left without her seeing. James could have jumped up as soon as she left, thrown on clothes, and gotten to Saybrook’s in time. It was possible.

  Awful, unthinkable, but possible.

  She reached for the phone on her desk and dialed the number to her apartment building, her heart knocking against her ribs. Harvey, her doorman, answered in a chipper voice, and after Rowan identified herself, she asked, “I’m wondering if you could look up when someone left my apartment on a certain morning. You keep surveillance tapes, yes?”

  “Of course,” Harvey said. “Which day would you like me to check?”

  Rowan gave the date of Poppy’s death. If Harvey knew its significance, he gave no indication. “And who are we looking for, around what time?” he asked.

  “A tall man, midthirties,” Rowan told him. “Wavy, sort of longish hair. Striped shirt. Dark jeans. Sometime in the morning, after six thirty.”

  Harvey said he’d look into it and call her back, asking for a number he could reach her at. She gave her cell. Then she hung up, pressing the receiver deep into the cradle, her mind at a standstill.

  “Knock knock?”

  Rowan shot up. James stood in the doorway.

  “W-what are you doing here?” she sputtered, jumping so abruptly she knocked over an empty coffee mug.

  James leaned down to pick it up as it rolled across the carpet. “I want to explain.”

  Rowan thought of the phone conversation she’d just had—and was keenly aware of the prenup on her lap. Then something else hit her: My wife was president, James had said the last time he’d unexpectedly popped in on her in the office. They just wave me in. Had they waved him inside the morning Poppy died too? His name wouldn’t be on a sign-in sheet. There would be no evidence of him entering the building.

  “Actually, I think you should leave,” she said toughly, trying to mask how shaky she felt.

  James flopped on the couch. “Saybrook.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Rowan almost shouted, covering her eyes. “At least not right now.”

  “Rowan, I made a mistake.” He hitched forward. “I want to be with you. Really and truly. You’re who I want.”

  His voice cracked. Rowan studied him more carefully. His hair was mussed, his skin was ashen, the lines around his mouth pronounced. This gave her a twinge of guilt, but then she hardened. He deserved to feel terrible. And for all she knew, it was just an act.

  “The thing with Evan . . . it was a fluke,” James went on when Rowan didn’t respond. “She came by the apartment the other night to get a sweater she’d left there. We got to talking, had a couple drinks, and . . .” He puffed his cheeks and breathed out. “I don’t know how it happened. And I never meant for it to happen a second time.”

  “You must have kind of meant for it to happen,” Rowan said before she could stop herself. “Because you and Evan were walking into a hotel, James. I’m not an idiot.”

  James stood and walked toward her. He leaned over and placed his hand on her desk. “Tell me what we had didn’t mean something.”

  Rowan did her best to look away. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “Well, I do.” James’s voice was louder now. “I’m crazy about you, Saybrook. I know you’re crazy about me.” He leaned forward, his eyes wide. “I already lost Poppy. I cannot lose you.”

  “Please.” Rowan angled away from him. “I need you to go.”
/>   James took a step around her desk, toward her chair. Panicked, Rowan spun around so he couldn’t see the papers, covering the top page with her hand. “Don’t shut me out,” he pleaded, catching the back of the chair and turning her back to face him.

  The papers slipped from the sudden force; Rowan struggled to keep them on her lap, but a few fluttered to the ground. James cocked his head, his gaze drifting to the carpet. His name was on the top page. In bold lettering. A beat passed. The star-shaped Nelson clock in the corner ticked loudly. Rowan could almost detect the exact moment James realized what she was hiding.

  “What are you doing with those?” James said in a tight voice Rowan had never heard before.

  “Nothing,” Rowan said quickly, scooping them up and shoving them behind her.

  He shot forward to grab the papers. Blocking him with her body, Rowan shoved them into a desk drawer and slammed it shut hard. James’s brow furrowed. He leaned over her to pull at the knob, half his weight on her.

  “Hey!” Rowan cried out, pushing him away. “That’s confidential!”

  James leaned into her again, his eyes blazing. “I thought we were closer than that.”

  “We’re not a we anymore,” Rowan said firmly, shoving him off her once more. “Like I said before, James. Go.”

  Slowly James stood up, never taking his gaze off her. His jaw was clenched, and his nostrils flared. There was something coiled and tense about him, as if he were a snake ready to strike. Terror washed over her. Maybe he’d come here to test the waters. And now, with her pulling out the prenup, acting so strange, he knew that she suspected him.

  Rowan thought of the balcony off her office, the same as the one off Poppy’s. All that separated her from Poppy’s fate was the thin sliding-glass door behind her, the low terrace wall, and then the long fall to the street. Was that door locked? She couldn’t recall.

  James took a step closer to Rowan. Rowan rolled back, hitting her desk. James took another step, trapping her.

  “Rowan, Rowan, Rowan,” James said quietly, his breath hot on her face. He reached out and touched her cheek. Rowan flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling his fingers graze her skin. Her jaw began to tremble. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to hurt her right now. There were people just outside the office. But what if he’d cracked? What if he wanted revenge even if it meant he would be caught too?

  “You’re going to make me look like a cheating shithead so that everybody has an easy scapegoat, aren’t you?” James whispered angrily.

  “You’re insane.” Rowan’s voice sounded stilted, not her own. “I’ll call security.” Her fingers inched toward the phone.

  “No, you won’t.” James trapped her wrist against the desk with the flat of his hand. Rowan tried to reach for the phone with the other hand, but James grabbed that too. He had her pinned down in a Twister-like position, one hand crossed over the other. His nails dug into her skin.

  “Please,” she whispered, trying to wriggle free. Her whole body started to tremble. “That hurts. Stop.”

  “Everything okay in here?”

  Rowan looked up. James shot away from her, his hands at his sides. Danielle Gilchrist stood in the doorway, a folder tucked under her arm. Her head was cocked, and there was a crease in her forehead. Her gaze moved from James to Rowan. Rowan was keenly aware of how hard both of them were breathing.

  “I was just leaving,” James said, stomping across the office and pushing past Danielle.

  Danielle watched James storm down the hall and then looked at Rowan, a worried expression on her face. “Do you need me to call security?” she asked in a small voice.

  Rowan ran her hand over the back of her neck. It was sweaty. She was sure her face was flushed too, and her heart was still pounding. “Just make sure he leaves,” she mumbled.

  Danielle nodded slowly. Understanding seemed to pass between them, and then she turned in the direction James had gone.

  A moment later, Rowan’s cell phone bleated, startling her. Swallowing hard, she pulled it from her purse. On the screen was a familiar number. “Harvey?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes,” answered her doorman. “Just letting you know that I looked at the tape. I have a recording of when your friend left.”

  Rowan glanced nervously at her office door. “What time?”

  “Six forty a.m.”

  Rowan’s knees buckled. She might have muttered “Thank you”; she didn’t really remember. Six forty. Only ten minutes after she’d left.

  And with plenty of time to get downtown before Poppy died.

  22

  “Virginia is for lovers!” a chipper stewardess said as Corinne pushed her way off a midsize airplane that same morning. “Thanks for flying with us!”

  Corinne nodded and stepped onto the Jetway. The air was warmer and more humid than it had been in Manhattan, and the scenery around her was generic and utilitarian, all parking lots and signposts. She walked toward the airport exit, not needing baggage claim. The road outside arrivals was empty. Finally a clean white minivan with “Norfolk Kabs” emblazoned on its side rolled up. A friendly older man in a Hawaiian shirt smiled at her. “Where to?”

  Corinne stared at the crumpled piece of paper she’d clutched through the whole plane ride. “Eighteen-forty Waterlily Road,” she read off. It was an address she’d received a long time ago, the only thing besides her scar to remind her of what had happened. Corinne was amazed she’d even held on to it for this long. Maybe, deep down, she knew she’d someday do this.

  The cabbie pushed Corinne’s door closed and maneuvered around a Hertz Rent-a-Car bus. He followed signs for the airport exit and then pulled onto the main highway. Almost immediately there was a small tent at the side of the road. “Fresh strawberries, melons, broccoli,” read a sign written on cardboard. And a second one proclaimed, “Fireworks!”

  Watching the green scenery whip by her window, that fateful night tumbled back to Corinne’s mind once more. After the test confirmed she was pregnant, she’d stood up, wrapped the wand in toilet paper, and hid it deep in her purse, promising to throw it away far from there. Then she’d peeked out the window at the guests and tried to picture Will mingling with her family. It was so inconceivable; she could imagine him only as a waiter, or maybe a guest who was clearly out of place, like Danielle Gilchrist and her mother, two redheads standing at the edge of the group, awkwardly sipping white wine.

  That whole summer she had felt like someone else, as if a different person had taken over her body, making her do things she’d never otherwise do.

  And now she needed to undo them.

  A half hour later she’d dared to enter the party, the nausea she finally understood rippling through her stomach. She spotted Poppy across the room talking to a few people from the GIA and strode toward her. Poppy must have sensed something was wrong because she excused herself and followed Corinne into the pantry off the kitchen. “What is it?” she said worriedly, wedging herself between the shelves of peanut butter and paper towels.

  “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,” Corinne said after shutting the door. The small room was dark.

  “Okay.” Poppy took Corinne’s hands seriously, and when Corinne couldn’t get out the words, she hugged her. “Whatever it is, it will be okay.”

  “I’m pregnant,” Corinne whispered, barely able to get the words out. “But I have a plan,” she added quickly. “I’m going to rent a place somewhere in another state. I’ll get a doctor, and I’ll stay there until it’s done.”

  Poppy gently wiped the tears from Corinne’s face. “Sweetie, you haven’t thought this through.”

  “Yes, I have. I can’t have a . . .” She couldn’t manage to say the word. Baby. “But I can’t not have it either.”

  “You’re going to want your mom there.”

  The last thing she wanted was her mother. “Don’t you get it?” she whispered. “I have to get out of here, and I can’t have anyone know about this. . . . I can’t have a
nyone see me like this. It will ruin my entire life.”

  Poppy drew her bottom lip into her mouth. “You’re being so hard on yourself.” She looked up at the ceiling. “And it’s not like you’ll be hiding for a month, you know—you’ll be there for nine months. Maybe a year, depending on your recovery. How are you going to explain that to people?”

  “I’ve thought of that too,” Corinne said shakily. The idea had come to her so quickly, as if a dark place in her mind had been preparing for this day. “You can tell everyone you sent me to Hong Kong as my first order of business in foreign development. You’re president now—you can do that, can’t you?”

  “What if someone wants to visit you there? What if someone catches you? I’ll be blamed too, Corinne.”

  “No one will catch us,” Corinne said desperately. “Just . . . please. I need out of here. I need you to do this for me.”

  Poppy’s eyes lowered. She stared at the tile floor for a long beat. “But it would be the first Saybrook great-grandchild.”

  Corinne stared fixedly at a shelf full of soup cans, a painful lump in her throat. She tried to pretend Poppy hadn’t just said that. All around her were jocular sounds from the party: forks clinking against plates, the thump of bass, her grandmother’s voice rising over the other guests’.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered. “I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  Poppy nodded ever so slightly. “All right,” she said in a low voice. “I just hope you’re not making a mistake.”

  “I’m not,” Corinne said forcefully. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But you’re the only one I can trust.”

  Poppy placed her hands over her eyes and stood like that for what seemed like a long time. “All right,” she finally said. “I’ll mention Hong Kong to your parents tonight.”

  Corinne cleared her throat. “Can you do one more thing? Can you tell Will that I’ve . . . left? Be sure to make him understand.” There was no way she could tell Will she was leaving herself. The secret would be plain on her face, or she would blurt it out when he asked why she was breaking up with him.