The memory washed over her like a wave. It was the night of the end-of-summer party, the same night Steven Barnett died. Corinne stood barefoot on the cold marble floor in the upstairs Jack-and-Jill bathroom that straddled her and Poppy’s bedrooms. Everyone else was downstairs on the patio, celebrating Poppy’s promotion, but Corinne had retreated upstairs for privacy. She unwrapped a pregnancy test from its plastic and stared at it for a long time.
Her head had been spinning all day, her stomach had turned at the chicken salad the cook had prepared for lunch, her breasts had felt swollen for a week, and her period was late—really late. Earlier, she had taken the car out to a drugstore across the island, intending to purchase the test, but she’d been so freaked out about bringing it to the register that she’d slipped it into the pocket of her cashmere cardigan and walked out without paying. In one summer, she’d become a girl she didn’t recognize.
She sat on the toilet, peed on the stick, and then stood up, the test wand in her hand. Slowly the dye filled the result window. The control line appeared, and the second line popped up immediately, the pink dye cheerful and bright. Corinne’s heart pounded. Her ears felt wet and full, as they always did when she felt she might faint. Her fingers had started to shake. Stupid, stupid girl.
A particularly loud wave crashed against the rocks, and Corinne looked up. “I had this plan for my life. And everything had always gone according to my plan.” Until that summer, she added to herself. “Will wasn’t part of the plan. So Dixon and I got back together and I went to Hong Kong for work.” Acid filled Corinne’s throat, thinking of the secret she still couldn’t say aloud. Of what happened next. “Poppy told him I was leaving. I was too busy to do it myself,” she lied.
Aster was staring at her. “I have something crazy to tell you guys too. It’s about my boss, Elizabeth. Steven Barnett’s wife. She told me something . . . odd. Something about Poppy.” She smoothed her dress. “Elizabeth said she saw Poppy standing over Steven’s body the night of the party. She said Poppy killed him.”
A jolt went through Corinne. “What? That’s insane.”
“Ridiculous,” Rowan agreed.
“Well, Elizabeth seemed sure of it. And when I asked her what her motive was, Elizabeth made a reference to some sort of secret in the family. Something she thought Poppy was keeping. She said not to tell anyone, but I mean, you should know.”
Natasha coughed loudly.
Rowan wrinkled her nose. “Steven drowned. There was no secret. And Poppy’s not a murderer.”
“Seriously,” Corinne said shakily.
Poppy killing someone? It would be like finding out Edith drowned puppies in the bathtub. It simply wasn’t something a Saybrook would do. But then she thought about that summer, and the year she’d stayed away from her family. The baby she’d had in secret and given away. The night she’d spent with Will. A Saybrook wouldn’t do any of those things, either.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Aster suggested. But then she frowned. “Poppy would have said something to the police, though.”
Natasha tapped her foot. “What if Poppy did kill Steven? What if his murder had to do with Poppy’s death?”
Aster cocked her head. “How?”
“Well . . .” Natasha thought for a moment. “What if someone close to Steven saw it happen? And what if that person wanted revenge?”
“Like who?” Rowan asked.
Everyone stared at one another blankly. Natasha stood up. “I don’t know, but this seems like a really important piece of information. We need to tell someone.”
Corinne shook her head, remaining seated. “It probably isn’t true. For all we know, Elizabeth killed Steven.”
“She said she didn’t,” Aster piped up, but then her eyes slid to the right. “But she did say she was happy Steven was dead.”
“See? There you go,” Corinne said, a story unfurling in her mind. “What if Elizabeth just told you that, expecting you’d go to the cops with the story? Remember, Poppy took Steven’s job—deep down, Elizabeth could still be bitter. Maybe she blames Poppy for Steven’s death—if he’d been promoted instead of Poppy, perhaps he wouldn’t have drunk so much that night and fallen off the boat. But she tells you Poppy actually killed him in hopes of tarnishing her reputation. The cops would leak it to the media, our whole family would be embarrassed, and Poppy would be a disgrace.”
Aster tilted her head. “Could you imagine the field day the press would have with this? Poppy, a secret murderer all these years.”
“I’m with Aster,” Corinne said. “We’re not dragging Poppy’s name through the mud.”
“But what if this is a serious lead?” Natasha cried. “What if Steven did know a secret that Poppy needed to keep quiet?”
Rowan narrowed her eyes. “You seem awfully sure about this theory. Is there something you haven’t told us?”
Natasha glanced away fast. “Why would I know anything?”
Aster stood too, and placed her hands on her hips. “If you’re keeping something from us, Natasha, now is the time to tell.”