Brooke sat next to Whitney. She flashed me a tight smile as she nursed a mimosa, two empty wine glasses on the table at her elbow. She wore a creamy cashmere sweater with high-waisted black pants, aGucci belt, and nude Louboutins, designer brands I only knew because she'd told me.
Whitney's fingers drummed against the table. "How is Mia?"
I slid into the chair Rowan indicated. I wasn't sure how much to share. Normally, I would tell these women everything, but something held me back. That disquieting unease swirling in my gut hadn't let up. "She's upset."
Rowan reached across the table to squeeze my hand. Her touch was warm, reassuring. "Leah and Mia had such a close relationship. She must be devastated."
"She is," I said.
"Mmm," Brooke murmured into her glass.
Rowan strolled to the beverage niche with the fancy espresso machine and returned a moment later, handing me a steaming latte in an oversized mug, the foam art a perfect rosette. "Extra honey, almond milk, no Stevia, right?"
"Right. Thanks." That she remembered warmed something in my chest. Somehow, she'd instantly eased the sting of being left out. Rowan had a way of making you feel seen. Special. That warmth was Rowan's gift, and everyone wanted to be included in her orbit.
Of course, being chosen meant that you could also be unchosen.
Brooke twisted the massive diamond on her ring finger. Her words were careful, over-enunciated. "We were just talking about... everything."
I sat stiffly, the mug warm between my palms. Something felt off. The women seemed cool, distant. Whitney's foot kept tapping, quick little movements that made her knee bounce. Brooke kept glancing at her near-empty mimosa like she wanted another but didn't dare ask.
"How are you holding up?" Rowan settled into the chair opposite me with practiced grace and took a sip of her cappuccino.
"Okay, I guess," I said automatically, then corrected myself. "Awful, actually. I can't stop thinking about how Leah died. How tragic and meaningless it is. To die from a fall, from getting too close to the edge. It's terrible."
"Leahwasbehaving strangely lately, even if no one wants to admit it." Brooke's gaze flicked to Rowan as if seeking permission for something, then away. Her words came out slightly thick. "What if Alexis was right? And she got upset and did something reckless?"
Whitney's brows lifted. "Are you saying you think it was on purpose?"
A timer dinged in the kitchen. Rowan rose smoothly, moving to the oven. She pulled out a tray of cinnamon scones and transferred them to a crystal platter. "Vivienne said Leah was depressed. She hadn't come over to the house in weeks. Even Chloe noticed, and that girl is oblivious."
She set the platter on the table, adjusting it until it sat perfectly centered. "Eat up, ladies. They're keto."
I took a sip of the latte. Perfect as usual. But the creamy sweetness did nothing to lessen the growing knot in my stomach.
Whitney looked at the scones as if carbs were poison. She fingered the Cartier tennis bracelet on her wrist, a recent gift from her husband, Graham, who worked as the executive vice president of Strategy and Development at Whirlpool Corporation's headquarters in Benton Harbor. "I can't even imagine what Vivienne is going through right now."
"We should get the girls into therapy." Brooke lifted her glass, found it empty, and set it down with a forceful clink. "Alexis is a wreck. I hear her crying in the middle of the night. But she won't talk to me."
Rowan gave Brooke a weighted look. "Another mimosa, Brooke?"
Brooke flushed but nodded. "Just a splash."
It was barely eleven in the morning. A pang of sympathy struck me. Brooke tried so hard to look the part, to say the right things. At 37, she was the youngest of the mothers, and three years younger than me. Though she was naturally beautiful, she never seemed to believe it was enough.
Her brunette waves were freshly highlighted, her heart-shaped face sharpened by microbladed brows, lash extensions, and strategicfillers, every detail calibrated for the invisible camera that followed her everywhere as a lifestyle influencer.
She was fun and spontaneous when she let her guard down, fiercely loyal to her friends, quick with a joke or a story that could turn the blandest committee meeting into a juicy tale everyone leaned in for.
But lately it seemed like she couldn't relax without a drink in her hand, her smile rarely reaching her eyes, her laugh coming too quick and too bright. The effort showed in every gesture. It had to be exhausting to feel like you had to telegraph perfection continuously, every second of every day.
Rowan refilled Brooke's glass without comment, then returned to her seat. She picked up a scone, took the smallest bite, and set it back down. "Chloe thinks it's all her fault because it was her party. She's taking it very hard. She had terrible nightmares all night."
"Mia did, too." I took a scone and nibbled it. It was delicious, but I had little appetite. I glanced out the window. Outside, yellow crime tape fluttered between two trees on the edge of the bluff.
Brooke followed my gaze and took a long gulp of her mimosa, her hand unsteady. "How long is that going to be there? I can't imagine how you must feel, seeing that reminder every day. That she… that a girl died right there. I would want to move."
Rowan's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "They finished processing the area this morning. I asked the detectives to remove the crime tape, but they're taking their sweet time. I'm sure it'll be taken care of by tomorrow. And this is my home. While what happened is tragic, I could never consider moving somewhere else."
