The Heiresses

by Shepard, Sara

  He moved closer. “Don’t you want to live an honest life? Don’t you want what you do and feel to be real?”

  She hunched her shoulders, trying to hide. “I can’t give you the answer you want right now. I need more time.”

  “You don’t have that much more time.”

  Something in the kitchen crashed. It was only after the plate lay in pieces on the floor that Corinne realized that Will had shattered it. He stood there, his chest heaving, his shoulders and biceps and chest muscles prominent and powerful.

  Corinne shot to her feet. “You’re scaring me,” she told him, suddenly unnerved.

  Will looked back at her, his jaw hard. “Why can’t you understand that you’re not the only one with emotions?” His voice cracked. “That you’re not the only person in this equation?”

  “You’re making me sound selfish and awful.” She turned into the entryway, blinking back tears as she looked for her discarded shoes. “Is that what you think?”

  Will didn’t answer. Corinne unearthed her Jimmy Choo kitten heels and started to put them on, her throat tight. She couldn’t fit her heel into the strap, so she let it flap free, as messy and undone as she felt. “I’m going,” she mumbled.

  He started to walk her to the door, butCorinne marched a few paces ahead, refusing to look back at him. Will cleared his throat. “Corinne, stop. I’m sorry. I want to be with you. I think you want to be with me. It should be that simple.”

  Corinne stopped and turned. He stood in the doorway, a shattered look on his face. “Well, it’s not,” she whispered, and started down the stairs.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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

  17

  After an interview at the New York CNN studios, Aster returned to her tiny cubicle at Saybrook’s, staring at a massive binder on her desk that listed all the Saybrook’s stones still in company storage. The binder was categorized by color, and then carat, and other features like where the diamond was found and whether it was cut. Elizabeth had asked her to input all of the information and upload the images to a cloud server, whatever the hell that meant. But after that interview, Aster needed a moment to breathe. She’d managed to hold it together during the interview itself—­actually, she thought, she’d done a pretty fantastic job—­but talking about Poppy must have affected her more than she realized. After the interview, she’d starting crying on the way to the bathroom. She ducked into a stall and quietly sobbed for a minute, then carefully redid the thick, caked-­on TV makeup before saying her good-­byes and leaving the studio. Aster knew better than to let anyone see her cry.

  Her phone buzzed, and she looked down. NEW POST ON THE BLESSED AND THE CURSED, read the message. Mitch had helped her sign up for these alerts a few weeks ago. Maybe it was masochistic to watch as someone aired their dirty laundry all over the Internet, but Aster figured it was better to know what was being said than to be blindsided.

  She took a deep breath to steel herself, then tapped the link. Sure enough, a new post had loaded. Two pictures were positioned side by side on the screen. On the left was a shot of a sheet-­covered figure lying on a busy Manhattan sidewalk, a lock of blond hair peeking out from underneath the tarp, an elegant snakeskin pump emerging from another corner. Aster drew in a breath. Poppy.

  The other photo was of Natasha lying in a hospital bed. Tubes protruded from her nose. Dark, curly hair framed her oval face, and an eerie smile played around her lips. Aster’s mouth dropped open. How had someone gotten close enough to take a picture of Natasha?

  “Two Heiresses Down, Three to Go,” read the headline in bright red letters.

  Aster immediately reached for her phone and dialed Foley, but she didn’t get through. Trying to remain calm, she scrolled down and looked at the comments under the post. Some of them condemned the message writer and demanded the blog administrator take the post down. Others said, “Can’t you take a joke?” Still others wrote that Aster and her cousins deserved it. “Stuck-­up bitches,” an anonymous poster wrote. “What goes around comes around.”

  Aster’s phone buzzed, startling her. Clarissa’s name appeared on the screen. Aster felt a flush of satisfaction—­she hadn’t seen Clarissa since before Poppy’s death, but of course her friend would call in Aster’s time of need.

  “I’m guessing you saw me on CNN?” Aster asked instead of hello, still feeling shaky from the Blessed post.

  “Why were you on CNN?” Clarissa’s voice was husky, the way it always got when she smoked too many cigarettes. Aster wondered where she’d been last night. One of their old haunts, or a new club Aster hadn’t even heard of?

  “Because someone tried to kill me?” Aster said slowly, shivering at the sound of that. “There’s a crazy serial killer leaving messages on my family’s gossip site, saying that either me or my cousins might be next.”

  “You shouldn’t read that site,” Clarissa said. “You know it’s all bullshit.”

  Except it hasn’t been bullshit lately, Aster thought. Not all of it.

  “Anyway.” Clarissa yawned. “Are you coming tonight, or what?”

  Aster clutched the phone tightly, startled that Clarissa had changed the subject on her. Being pursued by a murderer wasn’t a big deal? “Um, where?”

  Clarissa scoffed. “To Boom Boom, of course! Jake’s going to be there.”

  Aster stared blankly at her computer screen. Poppy and Natasha’s pictures were still front and center; she minimized the window. “Jake?”

  “Gyllenhaal? Aster, I sent you the screenshots of his texts. Didn’t you look?” Clarissa was sounding more and more disgruntled. She launched into a bragging story about how she’d traded texts with Jake and that they were meeting there at twelve thirty.

  “I’d love to,” Aster said, “but as I just said, my life’s sort of in danger. I should probably lie low.”

  Clarissa snorted. “You sound a little Kim Kardashian overdramatic, honey. The ­people who post on that site are just doing it for fun.”

  And do you know this because you are one of them? Aster felt a stab of annoyance. Then she noticed a figure passing in the hallway. “I have to go. I’ll call you later,” she told Clarissa, and hung up. “Mitch!” she called out. He turned toward her, his face lighting up.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay,” Aster said. Mitch hadn’t shaved that morning; the stubble made her notice how sharp and chiseled his jawline was. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, either. Aster had never realized how long his lashes were, longer than she had ever seen on a guy.

  Mitch squinted at her, inspecting her features. “You know, I wouldn’t be okay if I went through what you did this weekend.” He glanced down the hall. “Has Elizabeth said anything to you about it?” he whispered.

  Aster shook her head. “Not a word. She was pissed, actually, that I had to do an interview today.” Elizabeth’s door had been firmly closed when she returned to work, but she’d sent Aster an e-­mail of things to do, everythingin all caps. “She finds it an inconvenience.”

  Mitch sniffed. “I’d say she was the one to push your car off that bridge, but then she’d have no one to do her bitch work.”

  Aster had already considered the idea. Elizabeth clearly hated the Saybrooks—­maybe she’d killed Poppy too, and was after the rest of the cousins next. But she’d checked Elizabeth’s calendar this morning before the interview; her boss really had been away the morning Poppy was murdered. There were even receipts from the Four Seasons LA and Katsuya to prove it.

  When Aster looked up, Mitch was still studying her. He shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can even be here right now. If you need anything today, give me a call, okay? I can do your coffee run for a change,” he added wryly.

  Aster snickered. “Thanks,” she said, the
n glanced at her computer screen again. “Want to figure out who runs the Blessed and the Cursed for me?”

  Mitch frowned. “Isn’t the FBI doing that?”

  “Yeah, well.” It didn’t seem like they were working very hard.

  Aster pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head was pounding, probably because she hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since Poppy’s murder. The last few nights, her mind had whirled overtime as she struggled to think of who could be after them. Natasha, perhaps—­she hated them so badly that perhaps she was picking them off one by one, only her latest plan had backfired and injured her instead. Or a random girlfriend of Steven? Maybe Elizabeth. Maybe someone they didn’t even know. And did Poppy have a secret? Why was Natasha the only one who knew about it?

  “Mitch,” she asked, getting an idea. “Have you ever looked through company e-­mails?”

  “I’m not sure if I should answer that honestly.”

  “I’m not going to get you in trouble. I’m just curious about Poppy.” She cleared her throat. “I sort of found out that she had . . . struggles.” It was the same word Jonathan York had used with Corinne at Poppy’s funeral. “And maybe a secret.”

  Mitch frowned. “You mean the jewelry thing?”

  “What jewelry thing?”

  Mitch looked conflicted, then slid forward in his chair. “I thought that’s what you meant. A few months ago, HR was concerned that Poppy was . . . taking things.”

  Aster balked. “Taking things? What do you mean?”

  “I saw it on e-­mail. I think she checked out some pieces to show clients and never checked them back in. ­People were worried that she . . . stole them, I guess. And then maybe sold them.”

  Aster laughed incredulously. “Why would Poppy need money?”

  Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. According to the e-­mails, the jewels were never returned.”

  “So was she in trouble?” Aster asked, her mind moving slowly.

  Mitch stared up at the ceiling. “I think it just went away. But I have no idea how it was resolved.”

  “Jesus.” Aster pressed her hand to her forehead, her head pounding even harder now. Who was this new Poppy, and why had Aster never met her? She wondered if Rowan knew about the theft allegations. Probably not—­she would have mentioned it. “I hate this,” she whispered, feeling overwhelmed.

  “Hey,” Mitch murmured. “It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.” He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, then seemed to think better of it and let his hand fall to the side. The silence stretched taut between them.

  Finally Aster turned and started clicking randomly at her computer. “You’d better get out of here, or Elizabeth will push us both over a bridge.”

  “Right.” Mitch looked a little disappointed. “See you later, Aster.” He turned and loped into the hall. His shoe was untied, and he tripped over the laces, then turned back and shrugged goofily. Aster shook her head, smiling.

  Her phone rang, and she jumped. Her father’s extension appeared in the caller ID window. “Dad,” Aster said shakily. “What’s up?”

  “I have something I need to talk to you about.” Mason sounded very sober.

  “Now?” Aster swallowed. Was he going to scold her about the CNN interview? What had she done wrong this time?

  “Can you come into my office?”

  Aster peeked into the hall. “I’m not sure Elizabeth would like that.”

  “I’ll clear it with her. Come down now.”

  He hung up before Aster could reply. She rose and smoothed down her dress, a solid blue that would look good on camera and brought out her eyes. Maybe this was a good opportunity, actually. She could ask him about Steven.

  She thought back to that night, at the end-­of-­summer party five years ago. It had been their point of no return. If she’d chosen differently that night, she and her father might have salvaged things.

  But instead Aster had followed Steven away from the group, fueled with adrenaline and spiky anger. This was the perfect revenge against her father. If he could ruin her relationship with her best friend, then she could destroy one of his.

  As for Danielle, all Aster had felt was hate. She’d thrown away their friendship to be with Aster’s dad.

  She and Steven pushed through the reeds and walked down to the beach. Though Steven had said he wanted to show Aster his yacht, as soon as they were out of view, he seized her around the waist and pulled her close to him. They sank down, and his hands traveled all over her body. In moments he’d unzipped the dress she was wearing and tossed it on the sand. Cool wind kissed Aster’s bare skin. She undid the buttons on his shirt and loosened his tuxedo cummerbund. “Oh my God,” he’d breathed into Aster’s ear. “You are so wet.” Aster didn’t really feel like dirty talking, so in response she just unzipped his pants and yanked them down.

  The moon had risen higher in the sky. Aster closed her eyes and pulled Steven closer to her, letting the anger fuel her movements in place of desire. His mouth was hot, and tasted like whiskey and lime. At one point she thought she smelled a cigar, but then the wind shifted and it was gone.

  She didn’t hear her father arrive until he was standing almost directly over her.

  Steven scrambled away, yanking up his pants. Mason stood there like a wooden block, solid and firm, his arms at his sides. His eyes blazed. His body shook with rage.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he growled at Aster.

  She sat up, pulling her dress around her and crossing her arms over her chest, feeling steadier than she had in a long time. “If you can screw my friend,” she said in a strong voice, “then I can screw yours.”

  Beep.

  Aster turned her head back to her computer screen. The Blessed and the Cursed had refreshed, a new post appearing above the pictures of Poppy and Natasha. It was a picture of her, she realized, crying as she entered the bathroom at the Time Warner Center. Her eyes were closed, her makeup smeared as tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Cry Me a River,” read the headline.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t noticed anyone in the hallway with her after the interview. How had the site gotten this picture? Was she being followed?

  She shuddered and closed the window, then turned and headed for the elevator bank. Whatever her father had to say couldn’t be any scarier than this.

  aster rode up two floors to where the execs and lawyers’ offices were. She turned right, toward the big corner office. “Hello?” she called out softly, poking her head inside.

  Her father’s office was empty, his chair turned to face the window. Aster walked in and inspected his desk. There was no note saying he’d be back in a moment. She felt a familiar dart of annoyance. This was so like him—­calling her down here, only to make her wait.

  A web page with the Chase bank logo was on the computer screen. Aster started to glance away—­then paused when she saw how many zeroes were there. It was the confirmation receipt for a liquidation of company stock: “100,000 shares,” it read. “In the amount of $10 million.” Aster’s mouth made a small O, and she leaned in a little closer. The transaction was from five years ago. She wondered why her father was looking at it now, and what it was for. Why had Mason wanted to unload so much stock all at once?

  “Aster.”

  Her father stood in the doorway. “Oh, hey,” Aster said, scuttling back to the couch and sitting down.

  Another figure stepped out from behind him—­Jonathan York, her once-­uncle. He was wearing a well-­cut gray suit and shiny loafers, and a large gold watch on his left wrist. There was a disconcertingly smug smile on his face.

  “Oh, hi, Jonathan,” Aster said, giving him a small wave. Back when he was officially a Saybrook, she’d never known how to deal with him. The family was full of strong personalities, but there was something about him—­his silence, his hulking shoulders
, his penetrating stare—­that put her on edge. Rumor had it that he and her Aunt Grace divorced because he was too controlling.

  “Jonathan was just leaving.” Mason turned to shake his brother’s hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” And then, offering a stiff nod, Jonathan was gone.

  Mason slipped into his office and shut the door. “What was he doing here?” Aster asked.

  “Oh, making trouble as usual,” Mason said quickly, breezing past her to his desk. He spun his chair back around and sat. When he glanced at his computer screen, a guarded look flashed across his face, and he looked carefully at Aster. She kept her face blank. Then Mason reached over and shut the monitor off.

  “So.” Mason opened a Diet Coke. He took a long swig and swallowed audibly. “You did a good job on CNN.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you did. Deanna and I are both pleased. As is your grandmother. We appreciate you doing it at the last moment.”

  Aster tugged at her collar, not used to praise. “No problem,” she said in a small voice.

  Mason drummed his fingers on the desk. “I also wanted to thank you for your good idea, about the engagement ring for Ko and Faun.”

  Aster frowned. “Pardon?”

  “Making a ring like one Faun’s mother used to have. Elizabeth told me about it this morning.”

  “Elizabeth used that idea? She told me it was stupid.”

  Mason coughed. “Well, she presented it to me earlier today. She tried to take the credit too, but Mitch Erikson was here, working on my computer, and he piped up that it had been your thought all along. I asked Elizabeth if it was true, and she admitted that it was.”

  Elizabeth had been upstaged? Mitch had stood up for her to her father? Aster smiled at the thought.

  Mason leaned forward, his features softening. “I’d like for you to work more closely with clients. Apparently your background makes you a perfect consultant for some of their wants and needs. Maybe the last few years haven’t been a waste after all.”