by JA Huss
“Shut up.” She laughs, turning her head to look at me. But she goes back to the spying pretty much immediately. “Oooo, there’s Camille. Wait. Are they fighting?”
“It kinda looks like it,” I say.
They are. It only takes a few more seconds to realize that. Camille is walking around the room, pulling open drawers and closing them again. That room must be her office because there’s lots of drawers. And bookshelves. She starts pulling books out, throwing them down on the floor.
“What the hell?” Kiera asks.
“Shit,” I say.
“What?”
“Camille texted your phone. That’s why I woke up. She said she needed to talk to you.”
Kiera bounces up and off the couch. “Be right back.”
I listen to the sound of her padding footsteps as she goes down the hall, but things are getting heated across the street now. Bennett has Camille by the wrists, leaning down into her face, like he’s yelling at her.
Kiera comes running back in. “Call her,” I say. “Right now. Something is happening over there and whatever it is, it’s not good.”
Ringing. Loud, as she puts her phone on speaker.
Across the street we watch them stop their argument to look at something. The phone, I think. But they ignore it and go back to the fight.
Voicemail. “You’ve got me,” Camille’s voice purrs on the recording. “Now what are you gonna do?” Beep.
Kiera hangs up and tries again, but now Camille is throwing open her terrace door and walking out in to the freezing snow.
“What the fuck is happening over there?” Kiera asks, tossing her phone on the couch. “Come on, Sofia has a terrace too. We should stop them. Make them come over here and tell us what’s going on.”
Before I can say anything she’s throwing open the door to the terrace. Biting, cold December wind whooshes through the office, blowing papers off the desk.
“Camille!” Kiera yells. “Pick up your phone!”
Camille stops. Looks at her from across the street. I want to get up and go outside. I’m halfway into the process of doing this, when I see what she’s holding in her hand.
A gun.
Oh. Fuck.
I’m up. I’m outside. Ignoring the freezing snow as my bare feet cross the terrace and I stand in front of the thick spindles of concrete that act as a railing.
“Camille!” Kiera yells again. “What the fuck are you doing? Put that down!”
Camille is distracted and Bennett makes his move. He wrestles the gun away from her, but she takes it back. There’s a fight and Camille ends up on her bare knees in the deep snow. Bennett ends up with the gun.
“Go back inside,” Bennett calls. “I’m taking care of it!”
“Taking care of what?” I yell.
“Shut the fuck up!” someone yells from a window down below.
“Camille!” Kiera screams again. Because now Camille is standing again. Not only standing, but climbing up onto the ledge of her balcony, her short, white nightie flapping in the wind. “Camille! Get off the fucking ledge!”
“I can’t do it!” Camille yells. “I can’t do it!”
“Of course you can’t!” Kiera screams. “You’re gonna go back inside! Right now!”
The terrace door above us opens and then I hear Sofia scream. “Camille! What are you doing?”
“Camille,” Hayes’ deep, commanding voice calls. “Get your ass off that ledge or I swear to God, I will—”
But he stops. Mid-sentence.
Because she jumps.
Kiera and Sofia scream.
I yell, “Fuck!”
And Hayes is just quiet.
I want to say I didn’t hear the sound of a body crashing into the street down below, but I did.
And that’s when the gun goes off and we realize…
Bennett just shot himself in the head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - KIERA
It’s a living nightmare. One I can’t wake up from. One in which Camille’s body is destroyed by a twelve-story fall to the concrete below and Bennett’s brains are splattered on the side of her apartment. One where I cry, incessantly. Sofia too. We hold each other as the police arrive and begin the questions.
They take my phone. They go knocking on doors, trying to find anyone who can give another point of view. They ask us things like, “Why would they do this?” And we have no answers.
They start prodding us about our history and make assumptions that are true, but that they have no right to know about.
Connor looks lost. Reporters start talking about it on the news. “Early this morning Camille DuPont, great-granddaughter to the late matriarch, Helene DuPont, took her own life by jumping from her twelfth-floor penthouse in the Upper East Side. Her friend, lawyer Bennett Winthrop, shot himself in the head in the minutes following. Connor Arlington, rumored to be announcing his candidacy for the US Senate tomorrow evening at an event hosted by Dr. Louise Livingston, was present at the scene when it happened…”
And so forth.
His phone is taken, but it rings incessantly in the pile of phones over on Sofia’s kitchen counter. His father shows up, demands to be seen at Sofia’s front door, but he’s turned away.
Connor seems relieved at that, but I don’t know. We could use a powerful man like Mr. Arlington right now.
Because the questions are becoming hard to answer.
“What is your history with the deceased?”
“We were friends,” Hayes says. “Long-time friends.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“At my office,” Connor answers. “Just a few hours earlier.”
“Why was Camille DuPont there?”
“I don’t know,” Connor admits.
But the ones they ask me are the really suspicious ones. At least my answers are. I can tell by the way the two detectives shoot sidelong glances at each other as I speak.
They separate Sofia and me, just like they did Connor and Hayes. But instead of letting us answer questions in the living room, they take us to separate parts of the apartment.
Sofia is taken upstairs and I’m taken to the guest room where there’s evidence of the sex Connor and I had. My underwear, haphazardly strewn about on the floor. His shirt and belt.
“How long have you and Mr. Arlington been dating?’
I don’t know how to answer that. I tell them, “I don’t really know if we’re dating. We just… reconnected after ten years.” But that just gets me more intimate questions like, “Did you have sex with him?” And “Did Miss DuPont ever have sex with him?”
See what I mean? How do I answer that?
Uh, yeah. We’ve all fucked each other before. Sometime all in the same bed. At the same time.
No, I can’t say that, can I?
“How did you meet the deceased?” This detective is a woman. I guess I figured she’d be more… sensitive? As a fellow female?
That’s not the case.
“We went to school together.”
“So you were friends all during school?”
“No. Mostly just senior year. I really don’t run in the same circle as they do.”
“And how did that come about?”
“What?”
“How did you become friends with them? Were you in the same club? The same dorm? If you didn’t meet any of them until senior year, then what prompted that meeting?”
“Is this really important?”
“We need to know why the six of you were yelling across a street, twelve stories up, in the middle of the night. Because the end result of that argument is two dead people, Miss Bonnaire.”
“Obviously, I know that. I was there. I saw the whole thing.”
“Was there a disagreement?”
“Not between us,” I say. “I already told you that. Camille and Bennett were arguing across the street in her apartment.”
“And you and Mr. Arlington were in the office, reading a book at three AM?”
“Correct!” I say, getting frustrated.
“Why were you up?”
“Wh-what?”
“Why did you wake up in the middle of the night and go read a book in the library? Mr. Arlington said you fell asleep and when he woke up, you were gone.”
“I was writing,” I say. “I’m a writer.”
“So you were working on a book.”
Shit. I see where this is going. “Not exactly.”
“Then exactly what were you doing?”
“Just writing down my thoughts.”
“About?”
“About Connor. And me. And… it’s just a diary,” I say.
“Where is this diary?”
“In the office,” I say. “On the couch, I think.”
The detective turns to her partner and says, “Can you get that for me?”
He nods and turns away.
“You can’t read my diary.”
“I’m afraid it’s evidence. We’re going to catalogue it, Miss Bonnaire.”
“It’s private,” I snap.
“Nothing’s private in a…” But she stops. I swear to God, she was gonna say murder investigation. “In a double suicide that has no logical explanation.”
“I don’t know why they were fighting. I was trying to tell her to call me. She called me—”
“I thought you said she texted you?”
“She did. That’s what I meant. I didn’t see it until after they started yelling when Connor told me that’s what woke him up.”
“So he”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“‘forgot’ to tell you she sent a text stating…” She looks down at her notepad. “‘I need to talk to you. Now.’”
“You have my phone,” I say. “You can see that I didn’t call her. I didn’t talk to her until I started yelling! Why are you asking me all this?”
“Because, Miss Bonnaire, Camille DuPont called her lawyer earlier this evening and left him a message too.”
“She did?” I say.
“Yes. And that message mentioned your name.”
“My name?”
“And Connor Arlington’s. And Sofia Astor’s. And Hayes Fitzgerald’s.”
“All of us? Why would she be talking to her lawyer about us? Especially when Bennett is a lawyer.”
“Was,” she corrects me.
I want to throat-punch this woman.
“He wanted to talk with his lawyer as well. So I understand the six of you had a dinner the night before last?”
“Yes, that’s right. At Hayes’ house on Long Island.”
“And there was an incident whereby”—she glances down at her notepad again—“Emily Medici—” She stops to laugh here. “Wow. You really do have an interesting circle of friends. Anyway, the reports I’ve seen say that Emily Medici escaped.”
“They found her the next morning. I think.”
“They did not, Miss Bonnaire. Emily Medici is still at large.”
“What? But I thought—”
“Do you know who”—she looks down at her pad again—“the Associates are?”
“W-what?”
“She got a text from a number that came up as ‘The Associates’ in her phone.”
“What did it say?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“It said, ‘Time to start a new book.’ Do you know what that means, Miss Bonnaire?”
I have enough sense to shut up then. And two more unanswered questions later I’m saying, “I think I need a lawyer.”
There were a few tense minutes when I thought they were going to arrest me or force me to go down to the station. Which is such a cliché thing to say, but whatever. They said that.
Then Hayes stepped in—he was never in danger of being arrested. Neither was Sofia or Connor. They only seemed to be interested in me.
But Hayes stepped in and started talking legal bullshit and a lawyer actually did show up, and then the interrogation was over, and they left, and now it’s almost dinner time.
“No one mentioned the book?” Connor asks.
We’re in Hayes’ limo on our way to Connor’s apartment on the other side of the park, Sofia and I on one bench and Connor and him across from us.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“Me either,” Sofia confirms.
“Good,” Hayes says, texting furiously on his phone. “We don’t want to mix these two things up.”
I squint my eyes at him, not really understanding. But I guess I get what he means. The new book. The old book. Camille and Bennett.
My eyes are so tired from crying. Why did this happen? Why did they do this? I will never come to terms with this day. Ever. I don’t care how many stories I write, there is no fictional plot that can make me feel better about the reality.
I want to ask Hayes about Emily but I can’t. I can’t deal with any more mysteries tonight.
“So listen,” Hayes says, his tone all business. “We can’t stay at your house, Con. Your father is there.”
“How do you know?”
“I have people watching it. He went there about three hours ago. But you need to go inside and put him at ease. Tell him the party is on, you’re gonna give the speech, and—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Connor says. “Camille and Bennett killed themselves last night!”
“I know that,” Hayes replies in an overly soft tone. “But you need to convince him you’re still on board with this Senate run.”
“Why?”
“We’ll get to that. Probably not tonight, but tomorrow at the party for sure.”
“I’m going with you,” I tell Connor.
“No, you’re not,” Hayes says. “The three of us are going up to your cottage, Kiera. Connor, get your father out of your house by seven and get to the heliport. We have things to… see.”
“See?” Sofia says.
Hayes looks at her. I can tell he wants to shut her down with a curt, Later, Sofia. But he stops himself. Says, “I’ll explain everything when Connor gets there. Just get rid of your father, Con. And the easiest way to do that is to tell him everything he wants to hear. Got it?”
Connor draws in a deep breath, lets it out, and then nods. “Fine.”
“Will we get in trouble for leaving New York?” I ask.
“Fuck them. We didn’t do this. But we know who did. And we’re gonna prove it.”
Before I can say anything else, the car stops in front of Connor’s building and a slew of security people surround him as he steps out. He tries to wave to me and say, “See ya later,” but the mob of tall men in black coats whisk him away before that happens.
The three of us spend the entire ride to the helipad on top of a building a few blocks away in silence. And that continues when we get in the chopper. No one even puts their headsets on to talk.
Hayes texts on a satellite phone the entire time, but I have no clue who he’s messaging. I’m too tired. Too worn out from losing two of my friends. Too afraid of what’s coming. All I can do is lean into Sofia for comfort and close my eyes.
Pretend I’m somewhere else. Like I always do. Imagine myself in some other story. Some other person playing some other part.
Live the dream and make it real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - CONNOR
The security detail isn’t quite out of the ordinary, but at the same time… it’s excessive. “Why are you guys here?” I ask, riding up with them in the elevator to my two-bedroom apartment. I don’t like to call this place home. It’s just an apartment. I didn’t even choose it, my father did. None of the furniture is mine and I have never looked forward to coming here after a long, stressful day.
The security ignores me, but I don’t even have time to get annoyed about this because the doors open onto my… not penthouse… and we walk down the hallway to my front door, which is already open.
Another member of my father’s security detail ushers me inside to find my father pacing back and forth in front of the living room window.
> It’s only then that I realize if I had binoculars—or maybe a small telescope—I could probably see into Sofia’s apartment across the park.
Weird. That I never knew that. Also weird, and kinda creepy, thinking about my father being here last night peeking at Kiera and me while we fucked in front of the window.
I don’t know why I think about this, especially when, as soon as my father sees me, he whispers, “He’s here. I’ll call you back,” like that whisper is enough stealth to hide the fact he was talking about me with someone. “Good God, Connor. What the hell was that?”
“Camille and—”
“Not that,” he barks. “The police! Why were you talking to the police?”
“I mean… it was a pretty clear-cut thing, Dad. Camille and—”
“You never talk to the police, understand? Not without a lawyer. Do you have any idea the kind of damage control I’ve been doing today?” He pauses, exhales loudly, then says, “We’re leaving. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To the Hamptons. Dr. Livingston is putting you up for the night at her place. That way we have all day tomorrow to prep for the announcement.”
My first instinct is to fight him on this, but then I hear Hayes’ words in my head. “Just make him think you’re on board.”
So fine. I do that. When I try to pack a bag, my father snaps, “Never mind any of that. We’ve got everything you need at the Livingston estate.”
Has he always been such a dick? Or is this something new I’m just noticing?
I really don’t think I’ve ever seen him this on edge.
“I need to stop somewhere and get a phone. The cops took mine.” It’s a lie. Well, a half a lie. They did take our phones, but they gave them back. Hayes refused to unlock his, which pissed them off. But they were really only interested in Kiera’s phone, which she unlocked voluntarily. I only tell this lie so I can go into the tech store half a block down before we leave as an excuse to call Hayes and let him know what’s happening. I get the feeling my father isn’t going to like that phone call one bit, and since Hayes hinted that we’re in stealth buddy system mode, I’m trying my best to be stealthy.
It was the absolute wrong thing to say. My father’s face actually goes red.