“That car came out of nowhere,” Rowan whispered in her ear, feeling her heart bang against her rib cage. She gazed out at the empty street. The cab’s taillights disappeared around a corner. Thank God her cousin had been there.
Rowan began to quietly sob. Corinne might have been able to save her from a head-on collision, but who would rescue her from the free fall of a broken heart?
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Corinne swept through the revolving doors of her apartment building. “Miss Saybrook!” her doorman called out to her. Corinne turned warily. He was holding a large file folder in his hand. “For you. From that pretty girl from work.”
Corinne breezed over and took it from him, saying a clipped thank-you. “Turkey—New Hires,” it said in round handwriting on the front. She undid the closure and pulled out a few fat résumés. A pink Post-it was on the top one. “Sorry to hit you with work, but I need these approved by tomorrow. Thanks, Danielle.”
“Is she single?” Markus called after her as she clicked to the elevator.
Corinne tucked the files in her purse. “I don’t think so,” she called over her shoulder. She remembered Danielle bringing an attractive man named Brett Verdoorn to the Christmas party last year.
She unlocked her apartment and dropped her keys on the enormous marble kitchen island. Dixon, still in his work suit and loafers, was sitting in the den, the TV flashing against his face. Four players sat at a poker table, trading cards out to the dealer. She slammed kitchen drawers and cabinets open and closed, sighing loudly when she noticed that Dixon had left an unwashed bowl of melted ice cream in the granite farmhouse sink—couldn’t he even wash a dish? She opened the fridge and pushed it shut again, hating its contents. She kicked off her shoes and didn’t care that they went skidding across the marble floor.
“Hey, babe,” he called out pleasantly, then slung an arm over the couch and tilted his neck back to get a view of her. “Where were you? More wedding stuff?”
Corinne plopped down next to him, irritated that he didn’t seem to sense her distress. “I just saw something awful,” she blurted.
Dixon crossed his arms over his chest. “Something on that website?”
“No. Worse.” Corinne told him about finding James with Evan. “I just hope Rowan’s okay. She’s not picking up.”
“Wait, wait. Evan Pierce? Holy shit.” Dixon started to unscrew his cuff links. “I mean, that’s fucked up. But why would Rowan care any more than the rest of you?”
Corinne bit the inside of her cheek. Sometimes she forgot how much she didn’t tell Dixon. “They’ve been seeing each other.”
Dixon’s mouth dropped open. “Wait a minute. James is the dude in the video?” He reached for his gin and tonic on the side table next to the couch. A slice of lime bobbed cheerfully on top. “I mean, isn’t that kind of messed up? Moving in on your dead cousin’s husband?” He raised an eyebrow at Corinne.
“Dixon. James is the one who’s at fault here,” Corinne said. “They were consenting adults—Rowan wasn’t moving in on anyone.”
Dixon chuckled. “She sure seemed in charge in that video.”
“Did you seriously watch that? She’s my cousin, Dixon.”
Dixon shrugged good-naturedly. “Me and the rest of America.”
Corinne shut her eyes, trying her best to let the comment go. “He’s been sleeping with someone else. Poppy’s best friend . . . and our wedding planner.” She rubbed her temples, suddenly realizing something. “Does this mean I should fire her? I probably should, shouldn’t I?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dixon held up a halting palm. “We’re not firing Evan. The wedding is next week.”
Corinne stood up and walked to the large fireplace in the back of the room. She didn’t know why she was so indignant. She’d cheated on Dixon. She of all people knew how easy it was to do. How it could just happen.
“You’re acting as if no one did anything wrong except for Rowan. What about James? At least tell me that what he’s done is terrible. At least give me that.” Even as she heard the words coming out of her mouth, she felt like she was in a play, acting the part of Corinne Saybrook.
Dixon sipped his cocktail. “Wasn’t James always sort of a dog? Guys like that never change.”
His gaze returned to poker just as one of the players—a smug-looking kid in a hoodie who always wore headphones—won a hand and took a bunch of chips. Corinne pressed her hands against the cold marble mantel and tried to breathe, but there was a fire burning in her chest. “So that’s how you rationalize it?” she asked shakily. “Rowan should have known better, so it’s her fault.”
Dixon set his glass back down. “Why are you picking a fight with me?”
“I’m not. I’m just—”
“Wait, wait.” Dixon held his hand up, pointing at something on the screen. The players were placing new bids.
Corinne swallowed a scream and walked out of the room. She counted to five, but Dixon didn’t follow her. She sank down into one of the high-backed wing chairs and laid her hands in her lap. But the chair wasn’t comfortable. A crowd cheered on the TV in the other room. Dixon applauded exuberantly.
Corinne knew what would happen: in a few minutes, he would come in here and say, “Hey, let’s go out,” in an attempt to smooth it over. And then they would go to somewhere loud and expensive, and they wouldn’t talk about the argument because they never talked about their arguments, just like they never talked about anything real.
It hit her all at once: all the time they’d been dating, she’d been waiting for him to become serious. Not serious as in I-want-to-marry-you serious, but serious in his own skin. Grown-up enough to have real discussions. Adult enough to want to spend a whole evening alone with her instead of inviting everyone along as though they were still in college. The more the merrier? Maybe it was because he had nothing to say to her.
And maybe she went along with it because she had nothing to say to him, either.
She stood up and pressed her hands to the window like a prisoner in a cell, watching the light on Fifth Avenue change from red to green to yellow to red to green to yellow, the little don’t-cross hands blinking in perfect tempo. It was beautiful, actually. A mini symphony of lights below her window, and she’d never noticed it before.
Don’t you want to live an honest life?
Will’s face appeared before her. All at once, she thought she could. She felt stronger, suddenly, as if she could break from the mold of what she was supposed to be. Poppy had broken that mold, it seemed—and hell, so had Rowan and Aster and certainly Natasha. It felt as if they’d all broken an important contract that every Saybrook women was supposed to uphold. They were supposed to be faithful and upstanding. They were supposed to set an example.
Why did she have to carry the torch for all of them? It suddenly didn’t seem fair. And maybe Rowan was right: her family would forgive her for breaking it off with Dixon. Maybe not tomorrow, but they would—eventually. She was strong enough, she realized, to weather that storm. Because she would have Will.
But living an honest life meant coming clean too. Corinne sucked in her stomach, daring to consider what that meant. She pictured Will’s face when she told him the whole truth. She imagined the questions that he’d ask. She imagined what he’d say—or wouldn’t say. She had to acknowledge that he might not want to speak to her again. But if she wanted them to have a chance, she had to reveal everything.
She just had to do something first.
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Saturday morning, Aster strode into the lobby of Elizabeth’s apartment building, wearin
g a floppy hat, sand-colored caftan, and gold sandals. It was a blisteringly hot day, and Clarissa had invited her to SoHo House later. Aster kept trying to muster up some excitement about going—normally she loved summer afternoons at SoHo House, sitting by the rooftop pool and sipping chilled rosé. But she was still irritated by Clarissa’s complete indifference to what was going on with her family. Someone had killed Poppy and tried to kill the rest of them, and she was supposed to sit there and talk about Jake Gyllenhaal and whether he liked blondes or brunettes?
Taking a deep breath, she gave her name to the doorman and said she was here to see Elizabeth. “Is she expecting you?” he asked.
“I’m her assistant.” Aster shifted nervously, wondering if this was a bad idea. What if Elizabeth wasn’t home? But after tossing and turning all last night, haunted by nightmares about that stupid website and its headlines, Aster had woken up determined to get some answers.
The doorman picked up the phone, and after a moment, he gave Aster a nod. “You can go on up.”
Taking a deep breath, Aster walked into the elevator and rode it all the way to the penthouse, staring at her reflection in the full-wall mirrors that lined the car. Something flashed out of the corner of her eye, but when she whipped around, the car was empty. She smoothed down her hair. She needed to stop being so jumpy.
The doors slid open, and Aster stepped tentatively inside. She’d dropped off countless packages for Elizabeth in the lobby, but she’d never actually been in the apartment before. A gourmet designer kitchen was to Aster’s left, done up in exotic stone and dark wood. There was a living room full of angular, modern-looking furniture and an intimidating bronze stove shooting from the ceiling like a tongue. Sweeping views of the city greeted her from the enormous windows. On a far wall was a large display of photographs of Elizabeth and Steven together: the two of them walking down the aisle on their wedding day, in front of the Eiffel Tower, and in bathing suits on a tropical beach. Over the mantel was the same wedding photograph that Elizabeth kept in her office.
Elizabeth stepped out from what must be the bedroom, dressed in a long silk dressing gown and Louis Vuitton slippers, and with a bath towel wrapped around her head.
Aster flushed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have called first.”
“Yes, you should’ve,” Elizabeth said. “I was just giving myself a facial. But since you’re here, you might as well tell me why you came. That hat is hideous, by the way,” she added, turning back into the bedroom.
It’s Hermès, Aster wanted to snap. But instead she just took off the hat and set it carefully on the kitchen counter.
She followed Elizabeth into the massive bedroom, where an extra-large king done up all in white presided over the space. Near the window were three mint-green chairs and an antique side table. A cart full of skin products sat on the Oriental area rug, as did a large machine with what looked like a vacuum hose protruding from a large white box. Elizabeth settled into the chair, squirted lotion onto her palms, and began massaging it over her face. “So, what did you want this morning, Aster?” she asked. “Are you here to hand in your resignation?”
Aster glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows. She could see right into the apartments across the courtyard. Anyone could look in and see her and Elizabeth, too.
Aster perched on the edge of the chair opposite her boss. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I was actually wondering if you could answer a question for me. About . . . your husband.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Aster took that as permission to continue. “I wanted to know if he might have had an affair with anyone around . . . around the same time he was with me.” She stared at the carpet.
“You know, jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Elizabeth said.
Aster ignored the jab. “I just . . . with all this stuff connected to Poppy’s murder investigation, I thought it might be important. What if whoever killed her was close to Steven? And killed Poppy for revenge?”
“If someone wanted revenge for Steven’s death, why would they wait five years to push Poppy out a window?” Elizabeth asked. The machine beeped, and she moved the facial wand to her forehead as it started to buzz. “Someone could have done that the next day.”
“I know it doesn’t add up. But maybe this person wasn’t sure Poppy killed him. Maybe she just found a final piece to the puzzle or something. Maybe you told someone else?”
A horn honked out the window. Elizabeth gestured to the facial machine. “Microdermabrasion.” She sighed. “Tiny little knives are searing off all my dead skin cells. I love thinking about it like that.”
“Look, do you know anything or not?” Aster asked, as impatiently as she dared.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “The only thing I can tell you is that my husband had a thing for townies. I saw the way they looked at him like he was a god. He loved that. Sometimes I found things they left behind—name tags from diners, drugstore lipstick, a lifeguard whistle, even a pay stub once. I went into the fudge shop on Main Street, and this little blond thing ran into the back. That’s when I knew Steven had nailed her too.”
Aster glanced at the pictures of Steven on the mantel. He seemed to be smirking at them. The idea that she’d been with him suddenly made her sick. “And you never said anything to him?” she asked.
“What did I care? Better them than me.” Elizabeth looked closely at Aster. “Steven wasn’t all that great in the sack, as you know,” she added pointedly.
Aster flushed. “No one deserves to be cheated on.”
Elizabeth turned the hose back on and scoured her chin. “That’s pretty rich, coming from you.” She sighed. “Besides, we had quite the prenup. Poppy’s way was much cleaner.”
“We don’t know for sure that Poppy killed him.”
Elizabeth snorted. “Yes, darling. We do.”
The sun came out from a cloud, sending a shard of light through the windows. “You said something before about Poppy having a secret. Do you think that’s true?”
Elizabeth smiled knowingly. “Steven used to say Saybrooks were born liars.”
“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 from the chair 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.”
The doors closed. Aster stood still a moment, her mind swirling. Go ask your father.
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Monday morning, Rowan absentmindedly 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 trudg
ed 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. She’d barely gotten out of bed this weekend. But her heartbreak 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 Saybrook and James Kenwood 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.
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