The Heiresses Read online

  Pink blotches appeared on Skylar’s cheeks. “Mommy always makes them.”

  Rowan’s heart stopped. She kneeled to Skylar’s level and looked in her eyes. “Well, I’ll make them today too. I’m the best cupcake maker this side of the Hudson River.”

  She reached forward to tickle Skylar, which usually sent the little girl into a fit of giggles, but this time Skylar just squirmed away. “Where is Mommy?” she asked, her three-­year-­old voice high and innocent.

  Tears pricked Rowan’s eyes. She glanced at James, but he was staring at his hands.

  “She had a very bad fall,” Rowan fumbled. “But she’s always watching you. And if you talk to her, she’s always listening.”

  Skylar’s little face registered an incongruous blend of obedience and confusion. “My daddy said we could paint my toenails if I want,” she said after a moment.

  “Well.” Rowan took her hand. “I think that sounds nice. Maybe I could give you a makeover too.”

  “You?” James snorted. Rowan shot him a look, and he shrugged. “Sorry. Skylar, Rowan will give you a wonderful makeover.”

  This seemed to cheer Skylar up, and she walked into the kitchen with Rowan. James trailed in last and stood at the island, staring at an unopened box of organic cupcake mix. He looked so helpless and confused. Rowan wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him like that, and she was seized with the desire to take care of him too.

  She turned to Briony, who had followed them in and was pressing a flushed cheek to the stainless steel refrigerator door. “You okay, sweetie?” Rowan said softly, and swept the little girl into her arms. Briony koala-­beared her legs around Rowan and started crying. “It feels like she has a fever,” Rowan said over her shoulder to James.

  James nodded. “I gave her Tylenol ten minutes ago.”

  Rowan nodded. “I’ll hold her until it kicks in. And tickle her!” She shoved her fingers into the fold between Briony’s chin and neck until the little girl finally cracked a smile.

  On the counter, James’s phone rang, a sharp run of piano notes bleating through the apartment. The device was sitting closer to Rowan on the island, and she subconsciously glanced at it. A 917 number popped on the screen. “Do you need to grab that?” Rowan asked him, shifting Briony higher in her arms.

  James glanced at the number, then hit IGNORE. “Nah. We’re in the middle of a cupcake emergency, after all,” he said with a wan smile. “It can wait.”

  Rowan looked at the box James was holding. “You were losing it over this? We only need three ingredients, and one of them is water.”

  James opened the fridge and stared inside. “My head isn’t screwed on straight.” He sighed.

  “That’s fine, because my head is exactly where it should be.” Rowan looked at Skylar and pretended to adjust her head on her neck. Skylar offered an amused smile. Rowan picked up at the Dunkin Hines box again. “Okay, Dad. Get us some eggs. You remember what those look like, right? Round, white? Come from chickens?” She looked at Skylar again, tucked her fists in her armpits, and made chicken-­wing-­flapping motions. Skylar snickered.

  “These?” James pulled out a tub of butter, joining in on the joke.

  “Those aren’t eggs!” Skylar cried.

  James looked at them mock-­confusedly. “I could have sworn they were eggs.” Next he yanked open the crisper drawer and pulled out a cucumber. “Is this an egg?”

  “Daddy!” Skylar cried, marching to the fridge herself. “Those are eggs!”

  “Really?” James seemed astonished. “Skylar, you are the smartest girl ever.”

  Rowan hid a smile and took the carton from James, then taught the little girl how to crack three of them in a bowl.

  Once the cupcakes had been spooned into their little wrappers and were baking in the oven, she glanced in the fridge. It was piled full of stuff in Tupperware, takeout boxes, and Dean and Deluca packages. From neighbors and family, she guessed. She pulled out a white box and inspected what was inside. Three marinated chicken breasts and a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Perfect.

  Turning on the second wall oven, she passed Briony to James and placed the meal on a baking sheet. James hung back, but she felt his gaze on her as she moved around the kitchen. He didn’t answer his cell phone when it rang again.

  James pulled out a chair and said, “What do you think, Sky? Should Aunt Rowan stay?”

  “Yes, please!” Skylar clasped her hands together, her eyes begging.

  Rowan thought of her own quiet apartment, and sat down in the empty chair—­Poppy’s chair. She quickly moved to another, busying herself with spooning a puree into a dish for the baby.

  It was easier than Rowan would have imagined to keep the kids entertained. She did her balance-­a-­spoon-­on-­her-­nose trick. James made various coins from his pockets disappear. Rowan sang “Itsy Bitsy Spider” in the Donald Duck voice she and her brother Michael had spent hours perfecting. Both kids laughed happily and ate well. The oven dinged, and Rowan pulled out the cupcakes and, after they cooled a bit, frosted them with Skylar’s help.

  By the time the sun had set over the Hudson, Briony had fallen asleep in Rowan’s arms on the couch. Rowan gently placed her in her crib, only to find Skylar behind her, begging that she read her a Madeline book—­a first edition, signed to Adele, Poppy’s mother, from the author. James eased Skylar into bed. “Aunt Rowan in bed too,” Skylar insisted, and James stepped back, allowing Rowan to climb in. She tucked her legs under the covers, her heart breaking at the fussiness of Skylar’s lacy sheets and how tightly the little girl clung to a stuffed turtle Poppy had bought for her in Meriweather last year.

  “Are you okay, Aunt Rowan?” Skylar asked.

  Rowan looked over at her, realizing there were tears in her eyes. She had been staring at a page of the book but hadn’t started to read. “I’m great,” she said quickly, swallowing the sob. “I’m just happy to be here with you.”

  Finally Skylar fell asleep. Rowan carefully settled her head on the pillow, pulled the blanket up to cover her shoulder, and tiptoed out of the room. James was waiting in the hall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Thank you.”

  Rowan lowered her eyes. “It was nothing.” She walked into the kitchen. There was a pile of dishes in the sink.

  “The kids seem okay, all things considered,” she said as she filled the sink with bubbly water.

  James moved next to her. Rowan could smell his familiar peppermint soap. “Well, Briony doesn’t really get it, and I’m not sure how much Skylar understands, either. But she really misses her mom.”

  Rowan nodded. “Of course she does.” And that would never go away. Even at thirty-­two, Rowan still called her mom several times a week and tried to visit her childhood home in Chappaqua at least once a month. It was important to Leona that the family stay in touch, especially with her two sons so far away. Just that morning, Leona had called to report that her lilac tree out back was beginning to flower.

  James moved away from the sink, wiping his hands on a towel. “I looked around the memorial ser­vice for, you know. Him. Anyone who seemed . . . unfamiliar.”

  Rowan’s head snapped up. “You still think she was having an affair?”

  James ran his hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t be thinking about it right now, but I can’t stop. I just keep imagining her whispering on the phone. There were so many nights when she didn’t come home.” He gazed out the window. “I was this ready to say something to her.”

  There were no dishes left to wash, but Rowan kept her hands in the water anyway. “Did you say anything to the FBI about it?” she asked. She’d spoken to Foley yesterday.

  “Yes. I thought they should know.”

  “Oh.” Rowan swallowed hard. “Did you tell them . . . where you were that morning?”

  James took a dish and dried it. “I didn’t tell them where I woke up. I didn
’t think you’d want me to.”

  Rowan felt a lump in her throat. Keeping her eyes on the spout at the sink, she nodded faintly. “Yeah.” She tried to sound tough and unaffected. “I mean, after all, it wasn’t like it . . . meant anything.”

  She hadn’t told Foley, either, simply telling the agent that she’d been walking to work when it happened. She might not have pushed her cousin, but Rowan hardly felt innocent.

  A siren blared outside. Rowan winced, worried it might wake up the girls, but there were no sounds from their bedrooms. James picked up a little glass bird from the windowsill. It was a souvenir from James and Poppy’s honeymoon in Thailand—­they’d found it in their suite, and Poppy thought it would bring them good luck. He made a small noise at the back of his throat. “It’s just so fucked up,” he said in a choked voice. “How could this have happened?”

  Rowan’s chest tightened. “I don’t know,” she whispered. A plastic baby bottle in a wire rack next to the sink suddenly tipped over. When she looked up again, James was quietly staring at her from across the sink. He took a breath, and then said, “How are you doing with everything?”

  Rowan’s gaze instantly snapped to the floor. “You shouldn’t think about me in all this.”

  “I shouldn’t?”

  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.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  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, as a whole? But why? For ransom? 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?

  One Heiress Down. Four to Go.

  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 a hundred 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.”

  “Thanks,” Aster said, caught off guard by Corinne’s rare touch of kindness. She hung up and headed to the turnstiles that led to the elevator, only to learn that she couldn’t pass through them without an ID card. Aster had no idea that their office, that any office, was so secure. Did they actually think ­people would try to sneak into work? And how could someone have broken in here to kill Poppy?

  “It’s okay, Miss Saybrook,” said the security guard, scanning his card to let her through. “I’ll make an exception for you.” Aster gave him her best model smile in thanks. He must have recognized her from the ad campaign that was still plastered everywhere.

  She stepped into the elevator and rode up to the eighth floor, where she was supposed to meet with HR so they could tell her where she was actually working.

  “Aster?”

  Danielle Gilchrist stood in the foyer, wearing a white, green, and orange color-­block dress and expensive-­looking wedges. Her red hair hung straight and shiny down her back, and a jumble of chunky bracelets lined her arms.

  For a moment, Aster wondered in confusion what her old friend was doing here. Then she noticed the purple-­and-­silver folder with the Saybrook’s logo on the front. “Welcome to the Saybrook’s family!” Danielle chirped. Of course—­Aster remembered now. Mason had gotten Danielle a job in Saybrook’s HR after she graduated from NYU. The thought made her stomach churn.

  “I’m already in the Saybrook’s family,” Aster said, taking a step back.

  Danielle colored for a moment, then recovered. “Right. It’s just a figure of speech.” She turned on her heel. “Well, come on. Might as well get started.”


  She opened the door to a big conference room that overlooked the Hudson. On the walls were pictures of old Hollywood celebrities wearing Saybrook’s diamonds. Aster remained in the doorway, finally understanding what was going on. “Wait. You’re doing my orientation?”

  Danielle nodded as she logged in to the computer and pulled up a PowerPoint. “Yeah, it’s company policy. Everyone has to go through orientation. Even an actual Saybrook.” Then she smiled. “You were at Badawi the other night, weren’t you? I love that place.”

  Aster shut her eyes. She’d avoided interacting with Danielle for so long. She turned the other way if she saw her on the street, steered clear of parties if Danielle was on the guest list. Anything to avoid thinking about that summer. But all at once, a memory flooded back to her.

  “Hey, Aster.” Thirteen-­year-­old Danielle Gilchrist sauntered up to Aster on the beach in Meriweather. Aster had always known Danielle—­she was the caretakers’ daughter—­but this summer she was different. “Got any Robitussin?”

  “Why would I carry that around?” Aster asked haughtily.

  “Because it gives you a great buzz,” Danielle answered. “You’ve never tried it?”

  Now it was Aster’s turn to feel stupid. She shook her head. Danielle turned toward the shore. She was pretty, Aster suddenly realized—­tall and thin, with long, wavy red hair and blue eyes. “I’m going to steal it from the drugstore, I guess. Want to come with?”

  They drank Robitussin that night, and Aster got loaded for the first time. They snuck into Corinne’s bedroom to read her journal, which was as boring as they thought it would be. “She’s very . . . organized, isn’t she?” Danielle asked, glancing around the fussy bedroom with a smirk. Aster giggled. “You mean anal.” It felt good to laugh about her sister. Corinne might have been Aster’s protector when she was younger, but as they grew older, she had begun constantly telling on her. And it wasn’t as if Aster could talk about Corinne with any of her cousins.

  Danielle slept over that night, and the next morning she was scribbling furiously in a notebook. “What are you doing?” Aster asked.