The door swung open, and Katherine Foley rushed toward them, dressed in a gray FBI T-shirt and khaki pants. Rowan shot up and shoved the phone one of the nurses was kind enough to loan her for family calls in her pocket.
“I came as soon as I heard.” Foley stopped in the doorway. “Your car went over a bridge?”
Rowan glanced at her cousins. “That’s right.”
Foley glanced at Natasha and winced. “Was she the driver?”
“Yes.” Corinne nodded.
“What happened?”
Rowan stared at the tiles on the floor. “I think another car was in our lane. Natasha tried to turn, but she lost control.”
“What happened to the other driver?”
Rowan looked at the others. “We have no idea,” Aster said.
“Did you recognize the vehicle?”
“It’s all kind of a blur,” Rowan admitted, realizing how pathetic that sounded.
Foley looked conflicted. Her gaze traveled back to Natasha. Aster cleared her throat. “Do you know where she was the morning of Poppy’s death?”
Foley shoved her hands in her pockets. “I don’t, actually. And now . . .” She broke off and curled her hands over the rails on Natasha’s bed. “Well, I wish she had cleared that up.”
Rowan’s stomach churned at Foley’s implication.
Foley looked at the cousins. “Where were you heading tonight?”
Rowan stood, careful not to get tangled in the wires that snaked from Natasha’s body into the machines. “To the airport. We were at the house for Corinne’s bachelorette party, but then we decided to go back to the city.”
“Why did you cut the party short?”
There was a pregnant pause. “We don’t—” Corinne started.
“I’m not—” Aster said at the same time.
All at once, Rowan couldn’t hold it in any longer. “What do you know about Steven Barnett?”
Foley flinched as a machine started to noisily beep. A small heart icon indicated that Natasha’s heart rate had dipped below sixty beats per minute. After a moment, it regulated and quieted down.
“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.”