The words hung there. The possibility fanned out in so many different directions. But when Rowan looked around, all she saw was Poppy—her collection of takeout menus and wineglasses and organic cookbooks. Pictures of Poppy and James and the girls. Grocery lists and reminders in Poppy’s neat script.
“I should go,” she blurted, shooting across the kitchen in seconds flat. She reached the door and began to unlock it, struggling with the latch. James, who had followed her, leaned in and did it for her easily.
“Thank you so much for helping with the kids.” His voice cracked.
Rowan slung her bag over her shoulder. “Of course. Anytime.”
He stood, hands in pockets. After a beat, she started out into the richly carpeted hallway. Tell me to stay, she willed silently, surprised at the ferocity of how much, despite everything, she suddenly wanted that.
But a few seconds went by, and James didn’t say a word. “Okay,” Rowan said, brushing off her hands. “See you soon, James.”
“See you soon,” he said quietly.
The elevator dinged and swept open. James still didn’t shut the door, and Rowan still couldn’t ask the question. And so she gave him a clumsy little wave, rode the elevator all the way to the bottom, and then went back to her apartment, alone.
9
On Wednesday morning, Aster, dressed in a lace minidress with bell sleeves, stepped out of her town car onto Hudson Street. Men in bespoke suits carrying crocodile briefcases swept busily past, not giving her a second glance even though the dress showed off her Pilates-toned legs. The air had a crisp, fresh quality about it, and everything buzzed with an unfamiliar sense of purpose. Aster realized why it was so foreign: she hadn’t been up this early in years. Everyone was rushing off to a job—something she’d never had to do.
Until today.
She stomped along the sidewalk, glowering at the other worker bees headed to their offices. She glanced around for reporters too. The police had just released the details of Poppy’s murder to the press that morning, and Aster knew it wouldn’t be long before the circus began.
Murder. When Aster shut her eyes, she kept imagining the grotesque scene of someone bursting into Poppy’s office and shoving her over the balcony. She tried not to think about it, but her brain kept pushing the scene further, imagining Poppy’s spine snapping when she hit the pavement, her organs exploding, her beautiful eyes popping from their sockets. Someone so good, so beautiful . . . destroyed.
That message on the website stayed with her too. One Heiress Down, Four More to Go. What if someone was after them, all of them? But why? Out of jealousy? And how on earth could the cops not know who was running that site? Wasn’t everything hackable, these days?
Something cold brushed Aster’s arm, and she screeched and whipped around just in time to see someone in a trench coat disappearing through a metal door in an alley. Her heart pounded in her ears. Had that person touched her intentionally? Was she walking around Manhattan with a target on her back?
When her phone buzzed with a text, she jumped again. But it was only Clarissa. Good luck today! it read. You okay?
Of course I’m not okay, Aster thought. What a ridiculous thing to ask. But instead she just wrote, I’m holding up. It was sweet of Clarissa to check in, at least.
Do you get a lunch break? Clarissa replied. We could do Pastis?
Aster’s heart sank. Poppy had been planning to take her to Pastis today. Maybe, she typed back, just as her phone started to vibrate with an incoming call. She frowned at the name on the screen—Corinne. Taking a breath, she hit answer.
“Good, you’re awake,” Corinne said in a clipped voice.
Aster took a few steps toward the Saybrook’s building. “Unfortunately.”
“Are you at work yet?”
So this was a motherly reminder about coming to work. “I’m just outside,” Aster snapped.
“Okay. Just making sure,” Corinne said, and Aster gritted her teeth. “I should warn you,” Corinne went on, another phone ringing quietly in the background on her end. “The vibe here is a little . . . weird.”
“Weird?” Aster stared up at the stone building that had housed her family’s business for almost seventy years. The spot where Poppy had fallen was still blocked off with yellow tape. Someone had left flowers just outside its borders. Trying to shake the image of Poppy’s broken body, she pushed through the double doors—and froze in place. The lobby was bursting with NYPD officers and police dogs. Everyone seemed stiff, alert, and very on edge.
“Christ,” she whispered into the phone.
“The police are keeping reporters away from the building for now.” Corinne’s voice was solemn. “But we’d better get ready for a lot more questions.” She sighed. “Good luck today.”