by Sara Shepard
Foley’s gaze didn’t lift from her phone. “When I know something, you’ll know something.”
“Does that mean you don’t know anything?” Aster cried. “What about Natasha? Have you found anything out about where she was that morning?”
“Have you even been interviewing people?” Rowan demanded. “Danielle Gilchrist told me you never contacted her.”
“I spoke to Danielle on the phone. She didn’t know anything helpful,” Foley answered in a surly tone. “Seriously, guys, just let us do our jobs.” There was a ding, and the car doors swished open. Foley practically shoved them all inside.
They rode down in silence. Aster scowled at the closed doors. “She didn’t have to be so rude.”
Corinne tugged at her collar. “I can’t believe they were following me.”
“They’ve probably been following all of us,” Rowan said bleakly. Her face burned at the thought of agents watching her steal into James’s apartment and pretend to be a mother to James’s children. They’d probably seen her find out about Evan too—in fact, they’d probably known about Evan long before she did. It felt like even more of an invasion than the reporters or the gossipmongers on the Blessed and the Cursed, probably because Foley was supposed to be on their side.
A garbage truck passed, bringing with it the foul odor of everyone’s mingled trash. “Well, I guess we’re back to square one,” Rowan said bleakly, turning back to her cousins.
Corinne and Aster nodded. And then they parted ways, Rowan sliding into her town car. “Take me home,” she mumbled to the driver. She supposed there was no risk now of James lying in wait for her. He was a cheater, not a killer.
But the fact that he’d been cleared made her more afraid than ever. It felt as if anyone could be after them. Anyone could be watching. Any one of them could be next.
25
On Friday evening Corinne stood in her old bedroom at the house in Meriweather, staring into a full-length, antique mirror on spindly legs. It was only a half hour before her rehearsal dinner would begin. Her dress, a satin floral print with an open back, fit perfectly. A stylist had arranged her hair in loose curls, and her makeup was flawless, evening out the blotchiness that had formed on her cheeks from days of crying. Her eyes looked bigger and were no longer red; her waist seemed smaller, probably from being too stressed to eat.
“Honey, you look wonderful,” her mother said softly, pausing a moment to push a stray hair out of Corinne’s face. Then she frowned. “Why aren’t you smiling?”
Corinne looked away, hating that her feelings were so transparent. She had been over her conversation with Sadie Grier a hundred times. The idea that Corinne could have had something to do with Poppy’s murder—that she had put her in danger and that Will had snapped—had rattled her, even if it wasn’t true. And then there had been the wound of seeing Michaela, the daughter she had never even held. On top of all that, this new information about her father and Danielle felt like too much to handle. The skinny red-haired girl with the snarky mouth and the steel-trap mind. Aster’s best friend. It turned Corinne’s stomach just thinking about it. She could hardly look her father in the eye this afternoon when he carried in a crate of champagne.
She felt guilty too for being cold to Aster for so many years—now Aster’s blatant rebellion against her family made sense. It felt as if the world had changed overnight, but Corinne hadn’t. If anything, it made her desperate for something solid. No more surprises, no more messes. She was getting married. She had to. It was as though she were in line to leave a parking garage; if she backed up now, her tires would go over the sharp spikes, causing irrevocable damage. After all, people had already gathered downstairs—she could hear them burbling happily in the parlor and on the lawn. The day had dawned perfect, warm and sunny, and if she were to look outside, she’d see the big tent set up for the reception and the seats arranged for the ceremony. Dixon was somewhere downstairs, mingling with the guests, and judging by the smell of lobster and cream and sautéed vegetables, Will was probably here too.
Will. Pain streaked through Corinne. After she’d sent that text, he hadn’t replied. Though maybe that was for the best.
“I’m just nervous,” Corinne answered finally, blinking hard to keep from crying.
“Why?” Penelope waved her hand dismissively. “All the details are in place.”
“I know,” Corinne said, her chin quivering.
“Are you sure it’s not something else?”
Poppy’s words from so long ago floated back to her: You’re being so hard on yourself, Corinne. And Rowan’s: Everyone will forgive you if you don’t go through with it. Had she underestimated her mother? Perhaps she’d sympathize. Perhaps she wasn’t as rigid and regimented as Corinne thought.
Then Penelope laid her head on Corinne’s shoulder. “It’s Poppy, isn’t it? We all miss her. But I’m so proud of you, honey. You’ve been so strong through this. Such a shining example.” She leaned over and kissed Corinne’s forehead.
Corinne winced at the feeling of her mother’s papery lips on her skin. Not long ago, those words had been all she strove for. But now they seemed sort of ridiculous. A shining example? Really?
“Mom, could you give me a minute?” she said, offering her mother what she hoped was a jittery-bride smile.
“Of course, darling.” Penelope’s fingers trailed along Corinne’s arm as she glided out of the room.
Corinne listened as she walked down the stairs, then sat down on the bed. This was where she’d slept when she was a girl, and it was still filled with her favorite things: the Victorian dollhouse in the corner, the porcelain figurines of ballet dancers and princesses on the shelves, the plastic organizers full of her mother’s old costume jewelry, which she festooned her dolls with before she made them all get married.
A memory swirled into her mind, pure and sharp: that summer she’d been with Will, she’d lain on this very bed, staring at the ceiling, reliving their moments together. Feeling so alive, her heart thumping fast, her breathing quick. She remembered calling him once, whispering, “I wish you could come over.”
“I’ll come if you let me,” Will had answered. “I’ll climb in your window.”
“But it’s on the third floor,” Corinne had protested.
“So?” Will had laughed. “I’ll climb a tree. I’ll scale the side of the house. I’ll get to you somehow.”
A fresh round of tears prickled at Corinne’s eyes. Will had wanted her, really wanted her. But now everything was ruined.
There was a knock on the door, and Corinne looked over, expecting that her mother had returned. But someone else walked in instead.
Will, who had on chef’s whites and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, walked carefully into the room and sat on a wooden chair near the window. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. “I just wanted to catch you before . . . you know.” Then he looked at her. “Can you at least explain?”
For a brief moment, Corinne felt as guilty as she had all those years ago when she’d left Will without telling him anything. But then it rushed back to her: he was a liar too. They’d both hidden something.
“I know you know,” she croaked. And then, in a stronger voice: “I know you know about the baby.”
The color rose in his cheeks. “Oh,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“I went to see her. For the first time. I wanted to see her before I told you about it. And her mom told me that you’d already been there. That you knew.” A lump grew in her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say you saw her?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He shook his head. “I was so confused that summer. You . . . vanished. And then you sent your cousin, who I didn’t even really know . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I thought what we had meant more than that.”
“It did,” Corinne croaked, humbled. “I shouldn’t have just taken off.”
She heard a creak on the stairs, shot up, and glanced into th
e hallway. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. She returned to her bedroom and looked at Will. “So when did Poppy tell you?”
Will squinted. “Poppy? I actually thought you sent the letter at first—it wasn’t signed. But it explained everything, and had Michaela’s name and address. I don’t think I truly believed it until I went down there and saw for sure.” He paused. “She looks just like us, Corinne.”
Why would Poppy have left the letter anonymous? Corinne looked down. “You scared them, apparently. So much that Michaela’s mom basically kicked me out before I could even see her.”
Will frowned. “Is that what she told you? I didn’t scare anybody. I just . . .” He trailed off, sighing. “I was so amazed at the idea of a daughter. And I mean, you saw her, right? She’s perfect.”
“I know,” Corinne said faintly, Michaela’s face clear in her mind.
“But I didn’t do anything to scare them. I don’t know what she’s talking about.” He winced. “Jesus, Corinne. If you’d handled this like a normal person, we might be able to see her. She might be ours.”
Tears rolled down Corinne’s cheeks, probably making rivers in her makeup. “What was I supposed to do? I had no choice.”
Will stared at her crazily. “Maybe I’m not Dixon Shackelford, and maybe that’s who you were waiting for, but you still could have done the right thing. You kept a daughter from me. A grandchild from your whole family. You lied to them as much as to me. Are you really that afraid of them?”
“I don’t know what I’m afraid of!” Corinne blurted, her voice echoing hollowly through the room. “Of making a mistake, I guess! Of everyone . . . judging me. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Do you have any idea how hard it is to uphold this image for your entire family?”
Will blinked at her. “Why do you have to do it alone?”
“I don’t know!” Corinne blurted, feeling unhinged. She covered her face with her hands. “That’s what I’ve been realizing. I thought all of us, my cousins and I, I thought we all were trying to be perfect and good and . . . examples. But it turns out I was the only one. Or else I’m the only one who beats myself up so badly when I screw up.” She looked up at Will through watery eyes. “It’s just that striving for perfection is who I am,” she admitted. “It’s all I know. I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t.”
The confession sounded silly in the light of day. Corinne shut her eyes and listened to the string quartet warming up in the garden. She pictured Dixon and his groomsmen, tanned, big-toothed boarding-school boys like himself, horsing around in the boys’ wing.
She looked up at Will, suddenly exhausted. “I wish I could take it back. I should have listened to Poppy—she didn’t want me to go and hide. She wanted me to face things.”
Will sighed. “I wish you had too. And believe me, since I found out, there have been days where I’ve woken up hating you—which is pretty complicated, since I keep waking up loving you too.”
Love. There it was, hanging in the air. A huge weight pressed against Corinne’s chest. “Everyone’s already here. They’re expecting me.”
He moved closer to her. “So what? I’ll sneak you out the back if I have to. Corinne, I love you and I want to be with you—no matter the consequences.”
Corinne’s eyes filled with tears. Even after everything she’d done—the horrible secret she’d kept, the awful lies she’d told—he still wanted to be with her. He’s so good, she thought. I don’t deserve him.
She turned away from him. “I think it’s too late.”
“What do you mean?”
Corinne bent over the bed, tears blurring her vision. “How can we trust each other after this?”
“We’ll earn that trust.” Will touched her back. “We’ll work at it, day by day.”
Corinne turned around to face him. He looked so gorgeous and heartbreaking that she suddenly grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Will leaned into her, reaching his hands up over her shoulders. Every memory of their kisses rushed back to her in one sparkling tidal wave. Her whole body began to tremble, from the tips of her toes, rushing up her spine and all the way into her head. Are we doing this? She had no idea. A tornado had just struck her whole life, ripping up farmhouses and cows and cars. She was buried under the wreckage. She couldn’t breathe.
She felt herself wanting to pull him down to the bed and let him tear off her dress, snapping off the delicate buttons one by one. Everything she’d told him was so raw and true and honest, more from her heart than anything she’d ever said or done. She pressed harder into Will’s mouth, kissing deep. She wanted this to never end.
“Corinne, honey?” her mother called from the bottom of the steps. “The photographer is ready for you.”
Corinne shot away from Will. “I’ll be down in a second,” she yelled, her heart racing. Her mouth felt swollen, her skin dirty, her face on fire. “I have to go.”
She pushed past Will and staggered down the hall like she was drunk, the imprint of the kiss pulsing on her lips. But instead of going down the main stairs to the dining room, she fled to the back staircase.
It was dark and smelled like dust. She wrapped her fingers around the old wooden banister and walked down hurriedly but carefully, trying not to tear her dress. The stairs let out just behind the kitchen; pans clanged behind closed French doors. A side door led to a path that was obscured from the patio; Corinne rushed for it, not wanting anyone to see her right now. Not her family, not the photographer, and certainly not Dixon.
She navigated the stone path all the way to the beach. The sand was empty when she got there, the sky a perfect blue. A single-prop airplane loop-de-looped overhead, seemingly placed there just for her special day. She stared out at the crashing waves, craving them in a way she never had before.
I’ve been perfect all my life. I’m afraid not to be.
We’ll earn that trust. We’ll work at it, day by day.
The kiss throbbed on her lips. She glanced behind her, checking once more that no one was watching. Then she turned and ran as fast as she could toward the water. Without even hesitating, she pulled off her dress and her shoes, and waded into the water in only her undergarments, more naked than she’d ever been before.
26
Aster had been a little bit nervous, coming back to Meriweather after the disaster that was Corinne’s bachelorette party. But she had to hand it to Evan—even though she was a backstabbing bitch for sleeping with James, she’d done a fantastic job. All of the grand living room’s blue-and-white furnishings, ship’s wheels, and scrimshaw carvings were perfectly arranged around the elegant tables and chairs that now filled the space. The windows had been thrown open, the heavy brocade curtains switched out for light, gauzy strips, and the enormous Baccarat chandelier taken down and replaced with a thin wire sculpture that held hundreds of votive candles. The room smelled like gardenias, a jazz band played in the corner, and the line at the bar was three deep.
“Here we are,” Mitch said, sidling up to Aster and presenting her with a copper cup. “One Moscow Mule, extra lime.”
“You’re the best,” Aster said, clinking her cup to his. After seeing Mitch so often in Vans and jeans, she was surprised at how grown-up and polished he looked in a suit. He’d gotten his hair cut—just for her? she wondered—he was clean-shaven, and his jacket broadened his shoulders and accentuated his slim waist. Aster liked too how he kept sneaking little peeks at her legs, which looked especially long in her blush-colored Versace dress.
“Let me show you around,” she said, taking his arm to lead him down the hallway. She showed him the old seafaring artifacts her grandfather used to collect. “He would always try to find things like this at flea markets. He had insane luck, finding things that everyone else thought were worthless. We used to always say he should go on Antiques Roadshow.” Her voice broke a little at the thought of her grandpa. She wished he could have been here tonight, for Corinne’s sake.
“He sounds like he
was a really special guy,” Mitch said softly, reaching for her hand.
Aster laced her fingers with his. “Here’s a picture of him,” she said, pointing to an old photo of Alfred and his friend Harold in front of the Saybrook’s flagship store in New York City, wearing matching derbies and wire-rimmed glasses.
“He looks just like he did in the indoctrination video,” Mitch joked. Then he gazed through the crowd. “So where’s the woman of honor?”
Aster frowned. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t seen Corinne since that afternoon. Edith stood in the corner, chatting with the Morgans, a family who lived down the street and had made a fortune in natural gas. Dixon was schmoozing with some people from his investment firm; his father stood next to him, looking eerily like Dixon’s older, slightly grayer double. Mason and Penelope clutched hands tightly, deep in conversation with Natasha’s parents in the corner.
Aster’s gaze remained on her father for an extra beat. He may have had an alibi for Poppy’s murder, but he still had a lot of secrets.
“Aster!” someone exclaimed from across the room. A figure shot through the crowd, and Clarissa tackled her in an embrace. “How have you been, you crazy bitch?” She stood back and gave Aster a once-over. “You look so hot tonight. I hate you a little. And I especially hate you for bailing on me at SoHo House last week. Plus you missed a great night at Boom Boom.”
Clarissa looked skinnier and tanner than ever. Her dark hair hung down her back in long tendrils, and she wore a beaded dress that barely skimmed the top of her thighs. For a second, Aster thought Clarissa had crashed, but then she remembered she’d invited her.
“Sorry,” Aster said weakly, realizing that she’d never answered the text Clarissa sent her at dinner that night. That was the same day she’d broken into her dad’s e-mail and gone to the FBI with Corinne and Rowan. “Something came up.”
