She brushed past the bar and stepped through the double doors onto the street, almost bumping into a quick-moving businessman going the other direction. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she walked to the corner and peered up the street, but James was no longer there. Rowan hesitated, then strode a few paces up the street; maybe he’d disappeared around a corner. She scanned the shops on the avenue: a dingy deli, a Duane Reade drugstore, and one of those New York frame shops that sold the same five Monet prints.
And then there he was, standing at the entrance of Dream Downtown. A dark-haired woman in a sleeveless dress held his hand, and the two of them walked toward the revolving doors. Rowan’s stomach flipped. As the woman tilted her head toward him and brushed a piece of hair out of her face, Rowan realized she knew her too. It was Evan Pierce. Corinne’s wedding planner. Poppy’s friend.
Rowan was suddenly next to them without having known how she got there. Evan looked over first. “Oh!” she said pleasantly. “Hello, Rowan.”
James stopped short at the sound of her name. He dropped Evan’s hand, but didn’t move away from her. “Rowan,” he said, his voice taut. “Shit.”
They had stopped right in front of the revolving door; a stream of people had to squeeze around them to get into the building. But Rowan couldn’t move out of the way. “You’re not with Skylar” was the only thing she could think to say. She hated how weak her voice sounded.
James stepped forward. “I know. But I can explain.”
Rowan drew away from his touch. Evan crossed her arms over her chest, studying James quizzically. “Is everything all right?”
But Rowan kept her gaze on James. “Okay, then. Explain.” Maybe they were here for a business meeting. Maybe Evan wanted to create a wedding-planning app. Maybe . . .
James’s eyes darted back and forth guiltily. He shifted his weight and ran his hand through his hair. Rowan’s heart sank. She recognized this look too. She’d lived through it countless times when James brought one girl to a party and left with another.
But she’d never thought he would do it to her.
“Jesus,” she spat, a hard shell forming around her. Then she wheeled around toward the street, suddenly desperate to escape.
“Rowan!” James cried, darting after her. “Wait! Please!”
Her walk turned to a run. She sped to the end of the street, her eyes blurring with shameful tears. Fucking idiot, a voice inside her chided. And she’d thought James had changed. It was sickening how blindsided she felt, when really, she should have seen this coming from miles away.
“Rowan!” James’s voice receded down the street.
She walked downtown, focusing on a forward point and nothing else. If she stopped walking, she thought, she might perish. If she stopped walking, she might start thinking about what had just happened. And she might crumble to sand.
“Rowan!” James screamed, a half block away. “Rowan, come back here!”
His words washed over her. She thought of a million horrible things she could say to him, but she couldn’t imagine even looking at him right then. So she picked up the pace, turning off the avenue and zigzagging down a side street. Two small blocks later, she realized James’s calls had ceased. She looked over her shoulder, and James was gone. She was filled partly with satisfaction and partly with loathing. He hadn’t even bothered to keep up with her.
She turned a corner onto a street she didn’t recognize. Abandoned slaughterhouses loomed above her like old iron carcasses. Rowan heard traffic sounds, but her head was spinning so manically that she couldn’t tell which way Tenth Avenue was. Her heart started to thud. How was it that she had no idea where she was in her hometown?
She ran, her heels twisting, her arms pumping. When she stepped off a curb, her ankle turned. She felt her body launch into the air and screamed. Her knee hit the brick street first, and then her elbow. White-hot pain shot through her body, and she scrambled up as fast as she could. But then she felt a rush of wind to her left, and a horn honked in her ear. The headlights were bearing down on her as she turned her head.
“Rowan!” someone screamed behind her, and she felt a force pulling her back.
She stumbled up the curb again as the cab whipped past, the driver still laying on his horn. “Oh my God!” Corinne cried, spinning Rowan around and looking into her eyes. She pulled Rowan close and flung her arms around her.
“That car came out of nowhere,” Rowan whispered, 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?
19
Corinne swept through the 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 redhead.”
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. Corinne 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 porcelain 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.”
“She’s my cousin, Dixon. Did you seriously watch that?”
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—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 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: the whole 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 lights 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, and 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 woman 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 took a breath, 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 one thing first.
20
Saturday morning, Aster strode into the lobby of Elizabeth’s apartment building, wearing a floppy hat, a 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 chided.
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 what you saw?”
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. 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.”