Why did she have to carry the torch for all of them? It suddenly didn’t seem fair. And maybe Rowan was right: her family would forgive her for breaking it off with Dixon. Maybe not tomorrow, but they would—eventually. She was strong enough, she realized, to weather that storm. Because she would have Will.
But living an honest life meant coming clean too. Corinne took a breath, daring to consider what that meant. She pictured Will’s face when she told him the whole truth. She imagined the questions that he’d ask. She imagined what he’d say—or wouldn’t say. She had to acknowledge that he might not want to speak to her again. But if she wanted them to have a chance, she had to reveal everything.
She just had to do one thing first.
20
Saturday morning, Aster strode into the lobby of Elizabeth’s apartment building, wearing a floppy hat, a sand-colored caftan, and gold sandals. It was a blisteringly hot day, and Clarissa had invited her to SoHo House later. Aster kept trying to muster up some excitement about going—normally she loved summer afternoons at SoHo House, sitting by the rooftop pool and sipping chilled rosé. But she was still irritated by Clarissa’s complete indifference to what was going on with her family. Someone had killed Poppy and tried to kill the rest of them, and she was supposed to sit there and talk about Jake Gyllenhaal and whether he liked blondes or brunettes?
Taking a deep breath, she gave her name to the doorman and said she was here to see Elizabeth. “Is she expecting you?” he asked.
“I’m her assistant.” Aster shifted nervously, wondering if this was a bad idea. What if Elizabeth wasn’t home? But after tossing and turning all last night, haunted by nightmares about that stupid website and its headlines, Aster had woken up determined to get some answers.
The doorman picked up the phone, and after a moment, he gave Aster a nod. “You can go on up.”
Taking a deep breath, Aster walked into the elevator and rode it all the way to the penthouse, staring at her reflection in the full-wall mirrors that lined the car. Something flashed out of the corner of her eye, but when she whipped around, the car was empty. She smoothed down her hair. She needed to stop being so jumpy.
The doors slid open, and Aster stepped tentatively inside. She’d dropped off countless packages for Elizabeth in the lobby, but she’d never actually been in the apartment before. A gourmet designer kitchen was to Aster’s left, done up in exotic stone and dark wood. There was a living room full of angular, modern-looking furniture and an intimidating bronze stove shooting from the ceiling like a tongue. Sweeping views of the city greeted her from the enormous windows. On a far wall was a large display of photographs of Elizabeth and Steven together: the two of them walking down the aisle on their wedding day, in front of the Eiffel Tower, and in bathing suits on a tropical beach. Over the mantel was the same wedding photograph that Elizabeth kept in her office.
Elizabeth stepped out from what must be the bedroom, dressed in a long silk dressing gown and Louis Vuitton slippers, and with a bath towel wrapped around her head.
Aster flushed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have called first.”
“Yes, you should’ve,” Elizabeth said. “I was just giving myself a facial. But since you’re here, you might as well tell me why you came. That hat is hideous, by the way,” she added, turning back into the bedroom.
It’s Hermès, Aster wanted to snap. But instead she just took off the hat and set it carefully on the kitchen counter.
She followed Elizabeth into the massive bedroom, where an extra-large king done up all in white presided over the space. Near the window were three mint-green chairs and an antique side table. A cart full of skin products sat on the Oriental area rug, as did a large machine with what looked like a vacuum hose protruding from a large white box. Elizabeth settled into the chair, squirted lotion onto her palms, and began massaging it over her face. “So, what did you want this morning, Aster?” she asked. “Are you here to hand in your resignation?”
Aster glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows. She could see right into the apartments across the courtyard. Anyone could look in and see her and Elizabeth too.
Aster perched on the edge of the chair opposite her boss. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I was actually wondering if you could answer a question for me. About . . . your husband.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Aster took that as permission to continue. “I wanted to know if he might have had an affair with anyone around . . . around the same time he was with me.” She stared at the carpet.
“You know, jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Elizabeth chided.
Aster ignored the jab. “I just . . . with all this stuff connected to Poppy’s murder investigation, I thought it might be important. What if whoever killed her was close to Steven? And killed Poppy for revenge?”