"We need to meet. Now. I'll pay you—double what we agreed, just give me my life back." She pauses, breathing heavily, and once again I am in shock.
“After what you did?”
“That’s not your concern, she says. “This is my family, not yours.”
I hesitate, glancing back at Frances, her face pale and sad. Blake is out there with the doctor, and it hits me—this is the perfect time to slip away. While everyone's focused here, the chaos will cover my exit, so I can think and get some answers. So I can fix this mess I’ve created.
“Fine," I say into the phone, my heart pounding. “Where?”
She rattles off an address, and I hang up, pocketing the phone, my mind racing. Frances watches me, a sad understanding in her eyes, and I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Her skin feels soft and papery.
"I'll be back," I lie softly, but we both know it's goodbye, the emotion thick between us. “Please don’t tell Blake.”
I slip out then, and the door shuts quietly behind me. The hallway lights buzz overhead like persistent insects as I slip away from Frances's room. My heels click too loudly on the linoleum, echoing down the quiet wing and making me cringe. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, tears smearing the mascara from the party. The black gown hangs heavy now, clinging to my skin in the AC's chill.
I dodge the nurses' station and walk fast with my head down. Heartbroken doesn't touch it—the ache in my chest twists sharply. I am leaving the only family I've ever known. Freya's giggles, Blake's touch, Frances's acceptance—they all flash in my mind, but what choice do I have?
I push through the exit doors into the cold night air. My heels feel unsteady on the asphalt as I head toward the road. Leaving them was always on the cards, but God, it hurts like hell, far more than I could have imagined it would.
Chapter Fifty-Three
JULIET
Ihail a taxi outside Southampton Hospital, the yellow cab pulling up with a brake squeak under the floodlights. The driver—a middle-aged guy in a Yankees cap—glances back as I slide in. The leather seat feels tacky from the day's humidity, and the radio plays country music.
I give him the address, and he nods. It turns out to be an old farmhouse in Riverhead on Long Island's North Fork. Soon, we’re on our way as he merges into sparse traffic, the hospital lights fading in the rearview as we head west. The road winds through dark fields and woods, and my mind spins the whole way.
Why now?
Why this?
The party's probably still going, guests making bids at the auction under string lights, oblivious and sipping champagne. And here I am, racing to the woman who started it. I’m eager to meet with her not because of the money. I don’t want her money now. It’s blood money. But I need answers—what's going on? Why the syringe? Why Frances? Guilt chews deep and bitter.And heartbreak tangles with anger. That craving for Blake's arms makes breathing hard, like I’m tearing away a part of me.
The drive drags on, about forty minutes through North Fork suburbs, past sleeping vineyards and rows of grapevines under the moon's pale glow. Air slips in through the cracked window, fresh with damp earth and faint fermentation from harvest. Finally, we pull up, and I see a sprawling old farmhouse, gray clapboard weathered by coastal winds. A wraparound porch sags slightly, lights glowing warm in the windows like watchful eyes. Gravel crunches under the cab’s tires as the driver stops. I pay with Carolyn's credit card from my purse, the plastic slick in my sweaty palm. I tip him extra. Like double. Fuck her. The driver can’t believe his luck. He asks if he should wait.
“Yes,” I tell him.
I step out into the night, the cool air brushing against my bare shoulders and raising goosebumps along my skin. A distant owl hoots from the trees as I approach the door, my heels sinking a little into the soft, dew-kissed ground.
She opens it quickly. Carolyn stands in the doorway, the wood creaking as the door swings wide. Her face looks sharp under the hall light, that sleek bob framing features so much like mine. She's dressed in the same black gown as me, and her eyes calculate everything, sweeping over me. Her mouth lifts in a sarcastic smile at my shock.
“You can go. I’ll give her a lift back,” she shouts to the cab driver.
The cab drives off, and she gestures for me to come inside with a tight smile. The house smells of aged wood and faint dust, the kind that settles in places left alone too long. Off to the side, the living room waits with its mismatched furniture—a faded floral sofa, a scarred oak coffee table, and a stone fireplace that's cold and empty. There have been no ashes in there for a long, long time.
"Wine?" she offers, holding up a glass of deep red wine. It swirls darkly in a crystal glass, and makes me suspicious it might be poisoned. Her voice comes out smooth and casual, like we're old friends catching up, but the tension in her posture gives her away, her shoulders staying rigid.
"No," I say, my voice steady but edged with the anger I've been holding back. I pause by the doorway for a beat, the floorboards creaking under me as I step further in. My gown feels too tight now, too formal for this raw face-off, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
"What really happened tonight? With Frances—the syringe, all of it. Tell me the truth."
She sets the glass down on a side table with a soft clink. Her smile fades into something colder, more calculated, and she leans against the mantle, arms crossing across her chest.
“You want the truth? The real reason I wanted you to impersonate me?" she asks, her tone matter-of-fact, almost bored, but she doesn’t fool me. I can see frustration flickering in her eyes. Her plans went seriously off-track tonight. "You were my alibi. No one would suspect me of killing the old bitch if I was seen at the party. You being seen at the party was my perfect cover."
She pauses, her gaze narrowing as she watches my reaction. Shadows from the lamp play across her face, making her look like a stranger wearing my skin. "It went wrong when that stupid housekeeper spotted me and nearly ruined the whole thing. But anyway, the job's done. The old bitch is dead. No more interfering in my life. I’ll never have to suffer another disapproving look from that hateful hag. From this moment on, I will do what I want to do, and I will become the mistress of the house. All the servants will obey only me. All the family properties she owns—the mansion, the apartments in the cityand the villa in Italy, everything— will go to her son now. Which means half of all of it will be mine when I divorce that cold fish."
Her words slam into me like a knife; the cruelty of calling poor, hurt Frances "old bitch" and her evil intent to kill that kind old lady turn my stomach. I stare at her, the room tilting just a fraction, the empty fireplace gaping like a dark mouth. Realization crashes down—this was the plan all along, me as the unwitting pawn, the alibi for murder.
