Clarissa put her hands on her hips and gazed around the huge room. “So this is where you spent your summers?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Yes. Why?” Aster asked, feeling defensive.
“Oh, no reason.” Clarissa smiled sweetly. “It just seems . . . I don’t know. Sort of like the Addams Family house.” She looped an arm around Aster’s shoulders. “Do you think there’s any way we can snag your family’s private jet and bust out of this thing early? There’s an amazing party tonight at this record exec’s loft in TriBeCa. And guess who’s going to be there? Nigel! And he’s single again!” She bumped Aster’s hip and winked.
Mitch cleared his throat. “Uh, who’s Nigel?”
Aster nervously grabbed his hand. “Mitch, this is my friend, Clarissa.”
“Best friend,” Clarissa corrected.
“We’ve known each other for a long time,” Aster conceded. “Clarissa, Mitch.”
Clarissa looked Mitch up and down. The slightest smirk appeared on her face. “What’s your last name?”
“Erikson,” Mitch answered.
“Of the Darien Eriksons?” Clarissa asked.
Mitch peered at Aster for help. “I have a great-aunt who lives in Stamford?” he volunteered.
Clarissa turned back to Aster, giving her an are-you-serious? expression. Aster bit down hard on her lip. So Mitch didn’t exactly fit the mold of guys Aster normally went out with. But maybe that was a good thing.
Then Clarissa widened her eyes at someone across the room. “Holy shit, it’s Ryan!” She pointed to one of Dixon’s friends, then leaned toward Aster. “Remember when I made out with him at Lot 61?”
And with that, she was gone.
The jazz band launched into a rousing, up-tempo number. Aster glanced at Mitch, who was coolly sipping his Moscow Mule. “Sorry,” she said. “Clarissa is kind of . . . intense.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow. “She’s your best friend?”
Before she could answer, Edith stepped forward into her field of vision. “Well, look who’s here!” her grandmother crowed.
Aster turned, expecting Corinne to appear at the top of the stairs. But Edith—wearing her usual mink stole—had pushed forward to the front door. She laid her hands on a blonde’s shoulders and ushered her inside. It took Aster a moment to realize that the newly arrived guest was Katherine Foley, clad in not her usual black skirt suit but a champagne-colored, tea-length party dress and tan kitten heels.
Aster rushed over to the agent. “Did something happen with Poppy’s case?” she asked. “Did you find the killer?”
Edith frowned. “Good Lord, Aster. Miss Foley is here because I invited her.”
Aster tried her best to smile at Foley, mumbling an apology. “Hello, Aster,” Foley said. Her tone of voice was just as patronizing as it had been the other day at the station.
Someone else touched Aster’s elbow, and she turned around yet again, feeling dragged in too many directions. This time Rowan stood behind her, looking feminine and soft in a pale gray goddess dress. Aster froze, taking in the panicked expression on Rowan’s face. “What is it?” She knew Evan was here somewhere. Maybe James too. If they had done anything to hurt Rowan—
“Don’t make a scene, but we have an incident on the beach,” Rowan murmured between clenched teeth, gesturing with her chin toward the large windows at the back of the house. “Corinne’s in the ocean.”
“What do you mean, in the ocean?” Aster peeked over her shoulder. Mitch was listening, his face etched with concern. Aster felt a momentary stab of gratitude that he was such a good guy, and wouldn’t go posting this to the Blessed and the Cursed like most people would have.
“She’s just standing there, in the water, nearly naked,” Rowan sputtered. “Out where anyone can see. What is going on?”
Aster winced. She knew exactly what was going on.
“I’ll stall,” Aster promised Rowan. “You go get Corinne.” Then she grabbed Mitch’s hand and shot into the crowd. “And you’re going to help me.”
“Is your sister okay?” Mitch asked, stumbling to keep up with Aster.
Aster hurried him past a table of canapés. “My sister is a little uncertain about getting married,” she whispered. She rushed over to Evan, who was at the front of the room, speaking to a few guests. Aster wanted to slap the smug look off her face. James has been with tons of women, she was dying to say. You’re nothing special.
Evan looked over and raised an eyebrow at Aster.
“Why don’t we propose a toast—to Poppy?” Aster suggested.
Evan’s eyebrows knitted together. “That doesn’t feel appropriate.”
“On the contrary,” Aster said, pulling herself up to all of her five feet nine inches, “it’s entirely appropriate. Poppy was supposed to be the maid of honor tonight. She deserves to be remembered.” Seeing Evan’s hesitation, Aster pressed on. She pictured Rowan coaxing a dripping Corinne from the water. “C’mon. It will bring everyone together.”
Evan pressed her full lips together, then shrugged. “I suppose everyone is getting a bit restless.”
“Thanks.” Aster smiled sweetly. She clinked her spoon against a glass, and the room quieted down. “I’d like to propose a toast,” she sang out. “The first one is to my lovely cousin Poppy, whom we lost far too soon. Would anyone like to say a few words?” She was surprised when the first person to approach the front was her father.
Mason cleared his throat, then gazed into the crowd.
“As you know, our family has suffered a few tragedies lately.” He coughed and swirled his Scotch. “Tragedies that have shattered all of us. I didn’t speak at Poppy’s memorial, mostly because I wasn’t sure how. And though I don’t want to cloud this weekend’s celebration with the tragedy of her death, I want to say how devastated we all are to have lost her. It’s not enough to say that Poppy was gone before her time. It’s not enough to say that we miss her, even. There is a huge hole in all our lives, one that will never be repaired. The only thing that’s kept me sane since we lost her is my beautiful family—my wife, Penelope, and my two precious daughters, Corinne and Aster.” He glanced toward Aster, then her mother. “I love you girls with all my heart.”
A sigh rose throughout the crowd. Aster blinked, shocked. She’d never seen her father show so much emotion. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
Mason took a breath. “I hope there’s justice in this world,” he said, staring out at his now-rapt audience. “Poppy didn’t deserve the fate she was handed. And I want to make sure no one else does, either. So I want to make a toast to Poppy and to my other lovely niece, Natasha Saybrook-Davis, whose parents made the trip up here even though their daughter is still in the hospital. To Poppy and Natasha.”
He raised his glass, and everyone else copied. Clinks sounded throughout the room. Aster glanced at Mitch and touched her glass to his.
He shook his head in disbelief. “The FBI still haven’t figured anything out?”
Aster glanced at Foley, who stood in the shadows, drinking seltzer water. “I don’t think so,” she murmured.
“It’s just crazy, given the number of sweeps they do and the level of security in that building,” he went on. “I mean, I’m afraid to steal a pencil from the supply closet, there are so many cameras on me.”
Aster nodded thoughtfully. “I thought they would have caught something too, though I guess Poppy’s office is a little bit out of range from where the cameras are. And they said the surveillance tape from the lobby didn’t show anything suspicious. But it’s not like the killer apparated into the office and back out again. He or she has to be on there somewhere.”
Mitch looked at her curiously. “Did you just make a Harry Potter reference?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, feeling a flutter in her stomach that she studiously ignored. “I just wish I could see the surveillance tape. Maybe she missed something.” She jutted a thumb at Foley.
“You do know there’s a backup file, right?” Mitch
asked.
“Backup file?” Aster repeated.
“There’s always a backup on the cloud,” Mitch explained. “That way if something happens with the server, there’s a safety net. In theory, you could look at that.”
Aster’s breath came quicker. “I could? How?”
Mitch drained the rest of his drink and set it on a passing waiter’s tray. “It’s not hard. I mean, I could probably access the files through the server.”
“Seriously?” Aster asked.
“Of course,” Mitch said without hesitation. “My laptop isn’t here, though. It’s at my hotel.”
“Could you do it now?”
Mitch jingled his keys in his pocket, looking torn. “The only thing is, if I go now, I’ll probably miss the rest of dinner.”
“This is more important,” Aster said quickly. “I mean, if you don’t mind, that is . . .”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Mitch shuffled his feet. “And I mean, if you decide to go back to the city with your friend, that’s cool too. To see that Nigel guy.”
Aster stared at him a few moments before she realized he meant Clarissa, and her request to jet back to Manhattan that evening. Not long ago, it was exactly what Aster might have done: chances were the loft party would be way more fun than this dinner. But now she couldn’t even think about doing that to Corinne—or anyone else in her family. She didn’t want Nigel or any of the other smooth-talking guys at that party who would high-five one another later about banging the Saybrook heiress. She wanted the tall, adorable nerd in front of her, with his World of Warcraft tournaments and the painfully hopeful look in his brown eyes.
She glanced around the room. Clarissa was standing by the French doors that led to the patio; when she noticed Aster staring, she motioned her over. Instead, Aster slipped her hand into Mitch’s. And then she edged in even closer, wrapped her other arm around his waist, and kissed him. Mitch hesitated for a moment, then opened his mouth to kiss her back. Aster leaned into the kiss, wrapping both hands around his waist and playing with the hem of his shirt.
At last Mitch pulled away, gently detangling her arms from around him. “Okay,” he said, his breath a little ragged. “What was that for?”
“For being you,” Aster said. She reached into his pocket, grabbed his keys, and handed them to him. “Now go. I promise I’ll be waiting when you get back.”
Mitch nodded, the dreamy look still on his face, and wove through the crowd to the front door. Aster leaned against the wall, listening to more toasts. She could feel Clarissa’s gaze on her, but for once she didn’t care what she thought. Her thoughts were elsewhere. On Mitch . . . and on that file.
Poppy’s murder might finally be solved—tonight.
27
By the time Rowan made it to the ocean, Corinne had already climbed out of the water and was sitting on the shore. “Hello,” she said pleasantly to Rowan as she hurried down the bluff.
“Are you all right?” Rowan cried, handing her a beach towel.
Corinne wrapped the towel around her body and robotically dried off her legs. Her hair and makeup were still flawless. “I just needed a moment. But I’m fine now.”
She picked her dress up from the sand, marched into the house, and climbed the back stairs to her room. Rowan trailed behind nervously. “Is this because of Will?” she asked. “Or Dixon? Because there’s still time, Corinne. You don’t have to go through with this.”
Corinne bent over her suitcase and found a new bra and panties. She buttoned herself back into the dress she’d been wearing before, a strange Stepford smile on her face. “I said I’m fine.”
She kept the smile pasted on her face as she gave her hair a final fluff and descended the stairs into the party. The room smelled like a mix of cigars, sea salt, and lobster soufflé. “Finally!” Rowan heard Mason bellow, and everyone burst into applause. Corinne floated through the group, kissing cheeks and clutching hands, taking an extra moment to give her grandmother a big hug. Then she glided over to Dixon, who was sitting at a table with his parents. He stood to greet her, and she gave him a long, passionate kiss on the lips. Everyone whooped.
Rowan remained by the stairs, unsure of her cousin’s decision. Was Corinne trying to prove something? And to whom—everyone else, or herself?
“What took you so long?” Rowan heard Dixon tease Corinne as he leaned in for another quick kiss.
Corinne smiled coyly. “A bride needs time to look perfect for her husband.”
Rowan swallowed the lump in her throat and looked around the rest of the room, taking in the faces. Corinne’s girlfriends from Yale sat at a table, a few of them with young children. Another knot of kids fiddled with Papa Alfred’s ships in bottles, which were lined up on a shelf by the windows. Aunt Grace stood near the canapés with Natasha’s father, Patrick. Uncle Jonathan—Corinne had had to invite him, she said, for business reasons—stood on the opposite side of the room, deliberately avoiding contact with his ex-wife. Grace and Jonathan’s sons, Winston and Sullivan, mingled with some of Dixon’s friends, trying to sneak sips of whiskey. Rowan’s brothers, who’d flown in last night, joked with their parents by the fireplace. A gaggle of second cousins and cousins twice removed tittered by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the beach. Edith cackled loudly at something Mason said. Rowan spied Danielle Gilchrist and her boyfriend, Brett, shaking Corinne’s hand and wishing her well.
Then a little girl streaked toward Rowan, the pink sash of her dress trailing behind her. “Aunt Rowan!” she cried, barreling into Rowan’s legs. Skylar glanced up at Rowan with big blue eyes. “Where have you been? I miss you!”
“Oh, honey, I miss you too,” Rowan said, bending down to hug her. “You look beautiful!” Then she sensed someone shifting behind Skylar, and stood up. And there, hands shoved in his pockets, was James.
Rowan’s throat tightened. She gave Skylar a quick pat on the head, then edged away. “Uh, I have to go do something for your aunt Corinne, honey. I’ll be back soon, okay?”
“Okay!” Skylar said, running toward Aster next.
Rowan walked down a long hall toward the back of the house and opened a door to the wraparound porch that overlooked the ocean. She staggered to the railing and held on to it tightly, taking deep, even breaths. It doesn’t matter, she tried to tell herself.
But it did. Not so long ago, she and James were supposed to have come to this wedding together. They had discussed how they would explain to the family that they had been seeing each other, that they were taking things slowly, that they didn’t want to confuse the children or cheapen what James and Poppy’s marriage had been.
What a fucking fool she’d been.
The door squeaked open, then slammed. Rowan knew James was standing there, without even having to look. His footsteps drew closer, and then there he was, standing at the railing by her side.
“Please leave,” she said in a low voice.
“Rowan.” James’s voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. I know I was crazy the other day. Ever since Poppy died . . . I’ve been out of my head.”
Rowan just stood there silently, hugging her body tight.
James knocked back the contents of his ginger-scented cocktail. “If you’re wondering about Evan, I haven’t even spoken to her all night.”
“I wasn’t wondering about Evan.” Rowan gazed out at the gray ocean in the distance. “To be honest, James, I was wondering about you.”
She turned and took in his bloodshot eyes, his drawn face, and how thin he looked. “Foley told me about your alibi on the morning Poppy died. You left my house to be with a woman named Amelia Morrow. She’s another one of Poppy’s friends, isn’t she?”
James’s skin paled. He looked down. “Yes.”
“Did Poppy know about her?”
His shoulders drooped. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
She brought her hands to her face. “Did you do this to her . . . a lot?”
James laughed bitterly. “Do you really w
ant to know?”
“Why, James?” Rowan cried. “What is wrong with you?”
His hands fumbled for his drink. He tipped it back, even though the glass was already empty. “You know me. It’s really hard to say no to someone at the bar at the end of the night. Or at work. Or on a business trip. I’ve always been that way. I just can’t help it.”
Heat rose to Rowan’s face. “You have free will, you know. You can control yourself if you really want to. If someone matters enough.” She shut her eyes. “So was I just some girl at the bar too? Was Poppy?”
“No,” James said emphatically. He looked as though he was about to reach for Rowan’s hand, but then he thought better of it. “It was real with you. It was always real with you. And it was real with Poppy.” He took a breath. “I didn’t deserve Poppy. And I don’t deserve you, either.”
“You’re right,” Rowan said stiffly, angling in her shoulders. “You don’t.”
She took a deep breath, feeling herself slump. She was supposed to hate him, but instead she just felt . . . empty. She’d held on to a fantasy of the man she’d believed James was—a Casanova who’d changed when he met the right woman—and losing that was as painful as losing James himself. She turned her head toward the pinkish clouds in the sky, a realization dawning on her: Poppy had known that James cheated. And she’d stayed with him anyway.
It was the most jarring discovery Rowan had had in weeks, somehow even more shocking than the thought that Poppy might have killed Steven Barnett. Poppy was the kind of woman who lived purposefully. She was in complete control—and she always had been. Why would she stay with a man who cheated on her again and again? She could have had anyone in the world, and yet Poppy had looked the other way.
Had she thought she deserved it?
Was that why she hadn’t confided in Rowan or the others? Was that why she pretended to have a perfect marriage? Suddenly Rowan felt strangled by all the lies. Corinne and her fake smile as she kissed the fiancé she didn’t truly love. Mason and Danielle with their secret affair. And Rowan certainly couldn’t count herself out.