“You’re welcome,” Mason said.
They stared at each other in silence. Aster hated it, but she missed her father. Missed having him cheer her on, believe in her, encourage her. “Aster, I’m your biggest fan,” he always used to say. “Don’t ever forget that.”
But then she thought of him embracing Danielle, sleeping with her best friend and thinking he could hide it from her, and the window inside her that had opened a crack slammed shut again.
She cleared her throat. “I have a question.” Mason nodded, and Aster forged ahead. “Do you know if Steven Barnett had a serious girlfriend before he died?”
Mason flinched. His fingers released the mouse. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I mean, Elizabeth’s my boss,” Aster said quickly. She stared at him pointedly, waiting for a reaction. “Anyway, she’s made reference to it,” Aster went on. “I was just wondering.”
“I try not to listen to staff gossip,” Mason said brusquely. “Steven did a lot of things I didn’t approve of.”
“But didn’t Papa Alfred pick him right out of business school? He always gave Steven so much credit for why the business was so successful.”
“Yes, well.” Mason restacked the papers on the side of his desk. “Not all of us thought as highly of Steven as your grandfather did.”
Aster didn’t dare push the subject further. But since the mood was already altered, she figured she might as well keep going. “Did Poppy steal jewelry?”
Mason drew back angrily. “Where did you hear that?” he demanded. “Was it on that site?”
“No. Is it true?”
Mason’s fingers curled into a fist so tight that veins stuck out on the back of his hand. He breathed heavily for a few beats, his eyes downcast. “It’s been taken care of.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means, stop asking about it.”
“Why would Poppy do something like that? Does Foley know about this?”
Mason shot up from his desk. Aster pressed her spine into the cushion and made a small yelp. “What did I just tell you?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry.” Aster breathed shakily. “I just . . .”
“I told you to stop asking about it!” Mason bellowed.
“Okay,” Aster whispered, curling into herself.
Mason’s nostrils flared. It looked as if he was going to say something else, but he was interrupted by the phone on his desk. “I need to take this,” he said, giving a little wave of his hand as if to say, You’re dismissed.
Aster stood and hurried toward the door, slamming it hard behind her.
18
On Friday, Rowan paused outside Scarpetta in the Meatpacking District. It used to be one of Poppy’s favorite restaurants. Before Poppy married James, she and Rowan used to meet here after work and drink red wine that men at the bar would invariably buy them. “Let ’em pay,” Poppy always said, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. “It makes them feel needed—and it’s a small price to pay to talk to someone as awesome as you are, Ro.” Now, just seeing the awning filled Rowan with nostalgia and sadness.
But that emotion was swept away quickly as she felt someone’s gaze boring into her back. She turned, and two men, several years younger, turned their heads quickly, pretending they hadn’t been staring. The light changed, and they crossed the street. “Sex tape,” Rowan heard one of them say.
She sighed. All of New York City now knew what she was like during sex. Deanna and the family’s personal lawyers had sent multiple threatening e-mails to the Blessed and the Cursed, and the post had finally been taken down. But they still didn’t know who was running the fucking site—or who was tipping it off.
The video was like a big X on her soul. Her brothers had called her about it, asking awkward, worried questions. Her mother, the feminist, had driven into the city to see Rowan. Over chickpea fries and quinoa salad at Peacefood Cafe, Leona had lectured Rowan about how she was thirty-two years old now and should be a little more careful about her romantic entanglements—not to mention that if she hadn’t been working for the family company, she could have been fired. Even James had been freaked out, though Rowan had assured him again and again that no one knew it was him. The whole situation was mortifying.
Her phone rang, the volume so low Rowan almost didn’t hear it over the sounds of Fourteenth Street traffic. Rowan checked the screen and saw a 212 number. When she answered, a young woman’s voice said, “Rowan Saybrook? This is Shoshanna Aaron. I’m returning your call.”
“Hi,” Rowan said emphatically, cupping her hands around the phone. “Thank you so much for speaking to me.”
A bus passed, drowning out Rowan’s voice for a moment, but then she launched into the speech she’d rehearsed. “I won’t take up much of your time. I’m the legal counsel at Saybrook’s, and it’s come to my attention that you might have pertinent information about Poppy.”