The Heiresses

  “What about Steven Barnett?” Foley asked, fiddling with a button on her jacket. “I thought he was dead.”

  “He is, but he wanted Poppy’s job,” Rowan said. “Steven was our grandfather’s protégé. They were close, and he was very ambitious. There had been talk of him, not Poppy, becoming president. What if someone was angry at Poppy?”

  Foley leaned against the wall. “That was five years ago, though. It doesn’t seem likely that someone close to Steven would kill Poppy five years later over a missed promotion.”

  “We would have thought so too,” Rowan said, looking at both of her cousins. Aster and Corinne nodded at her to go on. After what had just happened, they couldn’t keep what Elizabeth had said a secret. “Until we found out Poppy might have killed him.”

  Foley’s expression stilled. She didn’t say anything, just blinked at them.

  Aster recounted what Elizabeth had told her. With every word, Foley’s face grew redder and redder. “Are you sure about that?” she blustered.

  “We’re not sure about anything,” Rowan admitted. “And we’d rather you not make it public—both for Poppy’s sake and for ours. Practically seconds after we started talking about it, a car hit us. Like someone wanted to keep us quiet.” She swallowed hard. “I’m a little worried about even confessing this to you.”

  Foley frowned. “So you think someone was listening at the house? Did anyone know you were coming to Meriweather this weekend?”

  Aster shrugged. “Everyone.”

  Foley shut her eyes and just stood silently for a while. Rowan exchanged a worried glance with the others. Maybe it was wrong to have said something.

  Finally the agent looked up. “Well, thanks for that theory. It’s definitely . . . interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Aster repeated, seeming confused. “What about scary? Or dangerous? Or plausible?”

  “You’re going to look into it, right?” Rowan protested. “What if this is why someone hit us?”

  “We still aren’t sure someone tried hit you on purpose.” Foley’s gaze was scattered, as if her thoughts were far away. “But I’ll look into it. Try to get some rest, okay? I’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait!” Rowan cried. Foley turned back. Rowan wanted more—to hear what she was thinking, what conclusions she was drawing, and what she thought about Poppy and Steven—but she didn’t quite know how to ask the questions. “How much will the press know about the crash?” she asked instead.

  Foley shoved her hands in her pockets, the dazed look still on her face. “The person you flagged down already called a local reporter. And obviously local authorities will report on the damage to the bridge. It’s shut down right now, and it’s the only way on and off the island.”

  Rowan shut her eyes. If there was such a thing as a Saybrook curse, it was the press. “Is there anything you can do to keep the reporters away?”

  Foley tapped her nails against Natasha’s bed rail. “Just don’t comment.”

  And then she was gone. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the Friends theme song as the credits rolled on the TV. Finally Rowan exchanged a bewildered look with the others. “Is it me, or did Foley just act like a zombie?”

  Corinne’s eyes were round. “It was like she fell asleep halfway through the conversation.”

  “I guess she doesn’t believe us about Steven,” Aster muttered.

  Rowan poked her finger through a small hole in her scrubs. “Then again, maybe we are jumping to conclusions a little quickly. This is Poppy we’re talking about.”

  “So you think Elizabeth is making things up?” Aster bit a thumbnail. “I don’t know. What if Steven threatened Poppy, and she fought back?”

  “But I don’t even remember seeing them together that night,” Corinne argued. “Except at the very start of the party, when Steven congratulated her.”

  Rowan squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t sure she’d seen Steven that night, either—but she’d seen Poppy plenty. Though she’d hung out with her brothers and a bunch of other guys that night, playing lawn bocce and poker, she seemed to have a keen radar for whenever Poppy and James swam into her peripheral vision.

  Then she looked at Aster. “You were . . . with Steven that night,” she said delicately. After Steven’s funeral, Aster had confessed that she’d hooked up with him. It was sort of in the manner of I hooked up with that guy, and then he turned up dead. How weird is that? “Was he acting strangely? Did he talk about Poppy?”

  Aster’s cheeks bloomed red. “We didn’t exactly talk much.”

  Rowan stared at a fluorescent bulb in the ceiling. “Okay. If Poppy did it, and if this has something to do with her murder, who was close to Steven? Who could have done this to her—and to us?”

  Corinne gazed blankly ahead. “I don’t know. A girlfriend?”

  “When I talked to Elizabeth, she said I was one of many. Maybe someone else he had been with really cared about him. Maybe she was at the party too,” Aster suggested.

  “What about what Natasha wanted to tell us?” Rowan whispered, glancing at Natasha’s silent shape beneath the blankets. Mist formed on the inside of the breathing mask whenever she exhaled. “What do you think she knew?”

  “And where do you think she was that morning Poppy died?” Aster whispered.

  Corinne gulped. “Maybe we’ll never know.”

  Rowan leaned her head against the wall. “Or maybe there’s a way to figure this out for ourselves.”

  “Figure what out for ourselves?” Corinne asked.

  “Well, at least whether Poppy killing Steven is even plausible. I mean, there could be people who saw her somewhere else when Steven died. And we could try to find out who else cared about Steven. But if she did it, maybe she told someone else. Like your dad. Or Evan.” Or James, Rowan thought to herself with a pang.

  The others looked skeptical. “Dad might know,” Aster said aloud.

  Rowan nodded. “And I’ll talk to James.”

  Corinne stood and stretched. “I suppose I could ask Evan—I’ll be seeing her this week to go over final wedding details.” She turned to the door, her shoulders sagging. “I need coffee.”

  “I’m going to check if Natasha’s parents are here yet.” Aster smoothed down her scrub shirt and checked her watch.

  “I’ll stay here in case she wakes up,” Rowan said.

  The door shut again. Rowan leaned back on the chair and listened to the wheezing sounds of the IV machines. Liquid slowly dripped from a bag into Natasha’s veins. Her eyes remained closed, her eyelashes not even fluttering. Somewhere behind those closed eyes, a secret was locked away. Something so awful, someone might have run them off a bridge because of it.

  Then Rowan’s borrowed phone pinged, and she looked at the screen. She pulled up the e-mail through the Internet browser and a new missive came in. NEW POST ON THE BLESSED AND THE CURSED, read an e-mail. YOU’LL WANT TO SEE THIS! Rowan’s skin prickled. How strange. She had never signed up to receive alerts from the website. She clicked on the link, suddenly filled with fear. What if it was a post about the crash?

  The page popped up on the screen. But the top story was about something else. “Hard(Core) at Work,” read the caption.

  A QuickTime video loaded. With shaking fingers, Rowan pressed play, then yelped. There she was on her desk, arching her back and moaning “Yes” and gripping a man’s taut back. Her nameplate, “Rowan Saybrook, Esq.,” was clearly in view, along with the Saybrook’s logo. James collapsed against her as they finished together, the camera never catching his face.

  She stopped the video immediately. Goose bumps broke out on her skin. She’d deleted that video. Even deleted it from her trash. Hadn’t she?

  Something akin to a snicker sounded from across the room. Rowan did a double take at Natasha’s sleeping form. Her hands were still at her sides, hair fanned out, and her feet pointed up. But one thing had changed. Now there was just the teensiest hint of a smile on her face now. It seemed teasing. Taunting.


  Oh, you naive fools, she seemed to be saying. As if she was duping them all.

  16

  The following Monday, Corinne sat in her father’s office, a huge corner room with two walls of windows, a vaulted ceiling, a separate entertaining area, and a small, elegantly appointed private bathroom off to one side. Rowan sat beside her, nervously jiggling her long, muscled left calf. Aster was on the couch next to Rowan, staring into a cup of coffee, and Deanna was perched on the edge of a leather chair against the window.

  Mason sat behind his desk, his brow furrowed and his lips drawn. There were three empty Diet Coke cans next to him. Ever since Mason quit smoking—aside from an occasional cigar—he drank Diet Coke whenever he was stressed.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” he said, pinching the skin between his eyes. “This accident isn’t exactly what we need right now.” He looked hard at all three of them.

  “One of you will have to do CNN,” Deanna piped up, staring at an iPad, a BlackBerry, and an iPhone on her lap. “But try not to talk too much about another car hitting you, okay? We don’t need to fuel rumors of the curse. And don’t give too many details about Natasha’s condition.”

  “I’ll do the interview,” Rowan volunteered.

  Mason’s gaze shot to her. “No, you won’t.” His eyes blazed. “I don’t even know what to say about you and that video. In the Saybrook’s offices, Rowan.”

  “I know,” Rowan mumbled, staring at her lap. She looked mortified. Corinne was embarrassed for her. She hadn’t watched the video, of course, but she could only imagine.

  Deanna flipped a page of her yellow legal pad. “Actually, Mason, maybe it would be good for Rowan to be our spokeswoman. She could apologize for the sex tape. It would humanize her. Maybe shed a little light on the mystery man—everyone is dying to know.”

  “Excuse me?” Rowan shrieked, looking as if she wanted to punch Deanna. Corinne stiffened too. Sometimes their publicist went too far.

  “No, thank you,” Mason said, his nostrils flaring. “Aster will do it.”

  “I will?” Aster looked surprised.

  “Yes, you will.” Then Mason glared at Rowan. “And if I catch you bringing another man into your office again, you’re done. Got it?”

  “Of course,” Rowan said, blushing bright red.

  “All right, everyone, get out of my sight,” Mason said, making a shooing gesture with his hands. They stood and headed for the door. “Corinne, you stay,” Mason called out when she was almost out of the room.

  Corinne turned back and regarded her father. He had just opened a fourth Diet Coke, and he’d swiveled his chair halfway around to face the window that looked out on the Hudson. A few ocean kayaks were braving the water. The Colgate clock on the New Jersey side declared it was just past 6:00 p.m. Corinne slid her engagement ring up and down her finger, wondering what this was about. For a split second she worried that Aster had told him about Will, but she wouldn’t do that—would she?

  Mason turned around and looked at Corinne. “I just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

  “Me?” Corinne touched her chest. “Why?”

  “Your wedding is soon. I know you don’t need this stress.” He gave her a sad smile. “It’s why I asked your sister to do the interview instead.”

  “Oh.” Corinne touched the collar of her silk blouse. She heard her new cell phone chime in her purse. The white screen lit up the dark satin lining. “Well, thanks.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know.” Mason’s voice was a little choked. “Juggling the difficulties of your job, planning for this wedding—you’re everyone’s rock. Especially now that Poppy is gone.”

  Corinne’s throat felt tight. All her life, her father’s affection had been rare. But Corinne had still needed him—and she’d needed more of this, him simply saying that he recognized how hard it was to keep everything together.

  “Th-thank you,” she said, trying to smile. Her phone chimed again. This time, she glanced at it. Two text messages had come in. I need to see you, the first one said. Can you meet me?

  Will. Corinne’s thoughts screeched to a halt. She couldn’t go. Or maybe she had to go.

  “Something important?” Mason asked, glancing at Corinne’s phone.

  “I think so,” she told her father, standing quickly and hurrying out of the room before he could compliment her anymore. Because, she realized, she wasn’t holding anything together.

  She was tearing things apart . . . and she couldn’t even help herself.

  HALF AN HOUR later Corinne stood outside a nondescript apartment building on Bank Street. She stared at the gold numbers on the wall, and then at Will’s name in the directory. Just seeing it horrified her, and she shot around the corner, trying to catch her breath. A coffee shop beckoned her across the street. She would go there instead. And think. And then go back uptown, where she belonged.

  But her legs wouldn’t move—or rather, they moved in the wrong direction, back to the apartment building. A woman in her twenties came out, and Corinne ducked out of the way, afraid she’d be seen. Her phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. Dixon.

  She hit SILENT. Corinne had sent him a text saying she wasn’t going to make dinner tonight, but she hadn’t explained why. She couldn’t speak to him right now. Her guilt would be obvious in her voice. She ran her hands down the length of her face. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the buzzer panel and pressed the button for Will’s apartment. The door unlocked, and she pushed into a vestibule with tiled floors, a blinking fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, and a line of small metal mailboxes along the wall. More mail sat on top of a radiator. A bike with a flat tire was propped against the wall.

  After opening another door, she was confronted with a set of worn stairs. She started up them, the risers creaking. A line of doors greeted her on the landing, a motley mix of smells emanating from under them. She climbed another flight. Someone had drawn an anatomically correct woman on the hallway wall.

  She imagined Dixon’s face if he knew she was in a place like this. Her mother’s judgmental gasp. She thought of what she’d told her cousins: It’s just cold feet.

  Still, she kept climbing.

  Finally she reached the fourth floor. Will stood at his door. “Are you all right?” he cried, pulling her toward him.

  Corinne stepped away, leaving an arm’s-length space between them. “What do you mean?”

  Will stared. “I read that you were in a car crash. I was so worried.”

  Corinne looked down. Of course. Every paper was talking about the crash. “I’m fine,” she said woodenly. “It was just an accident.”

  “What about your cousin? Is she going to be okay?”

  Corinne nodded weakly. There was no swelling in Natasha’s brain, which meant she should wake up soon. Then again, some patients in this condition never regained consciousness.

  There was a long pause. Corinne glanced down the carpeted hall, staring at a red door at the other end. “Well, come in,” Will said awkwardly, stepping aside and gesturing Corinne into the apartment. Corinne ducked her head and followed.

  They entered a small room with an exposed-brick wall. A modern-looking gray couch sat in the corner, flanked by two midcentury tables. Vintage cookbooks and hardcovers lined the built-ins along the brick wall. A pass-through window revealed a galley kitchen; knives were ranged along a magnetic strip on the wall, and pots and pans hung from a rack over the burners. It occurred to Corinne that most people in Manhattan would think Will was doing well for himself. Just not the people she hung around with.

  On the back wall was a huge tin sign bearing the name of the local restaurant Will had worked for in the Vineyard, the Sextant. “Oh my God,” Corinne blurted, letting down her guard for a moment. “Is that the road sign?”

  “Oh.” Will smiled bashfully. “Yeah.”

  “They let you have it?”

  “Not exactly. I sort of . . . stole it.”

  Though the Sextant had been a stap
le of the island since nineteen-twenty-something, the only time Corinne had been there was with Will. It was the fourth time they went out together, the first time they dared to go somewhere in public—though it certainly wasn’t anywhere Corinne would be spotted. Corinne remembered asking why the bartenders hadn’t swept up the sawdust or the mussels on the floor, and Will had laughed and said, “It’s supposed to be like that.”

  Now Will stared at the sign with a faraway look on his face. Corinne wondered if it reminded him of her. She liked the idea of his thinking of her while he was cooking. And then, instantly, she hated that she’d just thought that. Her emotions were so scrambled that she felt tears prick her eyes.

  Will stepped forward. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Corinne said, tilting toward the wall. “I’m confused. And I lied to you.”

  Will looked up and blinked. “I know.”

  “About this weekend. The crash. I’m not fine.” Then Corinne cocked her head. “Wait. How did you know I lied?”

  Will raised one shoulder. “I sensed it,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Corinne shook her head, wondering if she shouldn’t have brought up the crash at all. Everything coming out of her mouth was wrong.

  Will sat her down on the couch. “I heard the car started to sink.”

  Corinne’s eyes filled with tears. “It all happened so fast. Thank God for my sister. She took charge.” And then she told him about swimming to shore, running to find a passing car, the ambulances coming and taking them away. Will listened patiently, his gaze never leaving her face.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s all kinds of crazy talk, you know. After what happened to Poppy . . . and that website. Some people are worried that someone’s after all of you.”

  Corinne flinched. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she decided.

  “You’re safe now.” Will reached out. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  He said it so tenderly, and Corinne suddenly thought back to that summer, how she’d looked up at him—he was tall, much taller than Dixon—and felt safe in his arms. And she saw now how that tenderness would make him a good father. Could have made him, she corrected herself. It was like waking from a dream. My God, you haven’t told him, she thought.