Page 61 of Murder on the Upper East Side

At the dinner table that night, Ami was stony. She poked at her plate – Dad had made bolognese, typically a crowd-pleaser – and forced one-word responses to Yoko’s stream of questions. It had been this way for weeks now, strained and unpleasant, every time the four Millers shared a meal. And they were family dinner people – Dad and Yoko had always gone out of their way to make sure they ate together at least four times a week, no matter how busy their lives got. Dad was a great cook, and Yoko’s desserts frequently filled the kitchen with the mouthwatering aromas of cocoa and cherries and yuzu. Growing up, family dinner had often been the best part of all their days – including Ami’s. Her little sister was too absorbed in the drama of being fifteen – and being at Prescott – to admit it, but ever since they’d moved to New York, in fact,especiallysince they’d moved, Ami loved the easy conversation around the table, the lack of trying that Miller family meals involved.

After the Orchard & Vine debacle, that changed fast. Hannah had even suggested gently to their dadthat he might consider easing up on Ami, for all their sakes, but her proposal had been met by narrowed brows and a reminder that in Pittsburgh,you girls didn’t know anyone who did coke. We only agreed to that party because there were parents present. Clearly, that was our mistake.Hannah had backed off before he’d decided to ground her too.

Now, she stuffed her mouth with garlic bread and watched as her stepmom attempted to coax a smile out of her once-lively fifteen-year-old with a heartwarming anecdote about one of her clients. It was a failing mission, swiftly dissolving into silence. Yoko sipped her Pinot Noir. Ami scowled.

‘So Dad,’ Hannah said, desperate for a change in subject, ‘did you know Joel Wachs went to NYU?’

Wachs was a fellow Pennsylvania native, and he’d been serving as president of the Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts in NYC since the early 2000s. Their dad, who was the Director of Development for a small downtown fine arts museum, had invited him recently to a dinner meant to court new donors and had come away impressed. Granted, Wachs’ NYU degree was from the law school, and a master’s, but hopefully he wouldn’t press for details.

‘Is that so?’ Brian gave her a careful smile. He’d been a longtime proponent of UPenn, and while he and Yoko both insisted they’d support Hannah’s decision, whatever it turned out to be, her dad hadn’t done much to hide his preference for her original college plan – an Ivy, within driving distance fromNYC, but well removed from the distractions of the city. Somehow Philadelphia was significantly tamer in her dad’s eyes, a claim Hannah doubted held much weight.

It was mid-March. Decisions would roll in any day now, and truthfully Hannah was still torn. The pros and cons list Mr Harris had helped her compile at the start of the semester hung taped above her desk, the columns dead even. UPenn had been her dream for so long – but she’d barely gotten settled in New York. Maybe she’d only get into one of the two schools, and the decision would be made for her by the admissions gods. But her applications had been strong. She had a good shot at both spots.

‘What about Grace?’ It was the first full sentence Ami had spoken all dinner.

Hannah’s heart sank, but she plastered on a smile. ‘The Acela’s so fast, you can get between Philly and New York in an hour and twenty minutes.’

Ami snorted. ‘Good luck pitching that to yourbest friend. Aren’t you supposed to be roommates?’

Hannah took another bite of garlic bread, but her appetite was shot. Grace’s last two texts still sat in her messages on read. Ami was right – Grace would have zero sympathy if Hannah torpedoed their college plan. So instead of telling her the truth – that NYU was much more than a backup plan – she’d been avoiding her best friend for weeks. It wasn’t like her; Hannah was upfront, sometimes even blunt. But lately, she hadn’t been able to get the words out. She wasn’tproud of herself, but as the year progressed, it had gotten harder and harder to explain her new life to Grace. Easier to just stop trying.

She pushed back her chair, dinner settling like a rock in her stomach.

‘May I be excused?’

22Saturday, 13 June 2026

4:12am

From her vantage point in the centre of the lounge, Hannah watched as Bash and Elle disappeared, together, into the dim hallway behind reception. Either they were headed for the cloakroom, or, more likely, for the pocket door concealing the staff stairway. Hannah was still reeling from everything Ethan and Bruno had tried to downplay about their post-Prescott relationships to Madison – and had perhaps too willingly offered up about each other. But now a new set of questions flooded in. Where were Elle and Bash going – to speak to the detectives? But why not take the main stairs to the second floor? Unless, perhaps, their destination was an empty guest room…

Before Hannah could decide whether to follow, she noticed Edward Beaumont making his way purposefully over to Beatrice, who was still near reception, nursing a glass of red. As subtly as she could, Hannah edged closer.

Beatrice was dressed tonight in a striking red Valentino, her former halo of tight curls now cropped close to her head. The cut was elegant, her entire look sophisticated. She wore no makeup; her deep ebony skin was clear, and instead of the expected crimson stain, her lips were nude. As in high school, her style was impeccable but understated. And just like in high school, she’d managed to fly beneath Hannah’s radar for much of the night – until now.

‘You’re up.’ Edward motioned upstairs.

‘Is this really necessary?’ Beatrice asked.

‘Afraid so. They’re in the Caraway Room. I imagine you can find it?’

Beatrice didn’t respond. She lifted her floor-length gown, revealing nude Louboutin pumps, their red soles a perfect match for her dress, and turned towards the stairs.

Hannah watched her go, thoughts ping-ponging between Bash, Elle and Beatrice. As soon as she was reasonably certain she wasn’t being watched, she was going back to the staff stairway, back up, after them.

Inside the Caraway Room, Beatrice settled into the club chair opposite the two detectives. Detective Crews took her through the recording consent, then slid his phone to the centre of the desk.

‘Recognise this?’

Beatrice peered at the image displayed on the screen. It was a screenshot – Instagram, ten years ago. In it,dozens of Prescott Academy seniors wearing navy graduation gowns tossed mortarboards in the air. The final post ever shared byThe Upper Edgebefore the account closed for good in June 2017.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Anyone who attended Prescott between 2013 and 2017 knowsThe Upper Edge.’

Detectives Crews and Wellesley exchanged a knowing glance. From what Bash had told her in private an hour or so ago, the detectives had accrued an impressive amount of knowledge about the social dynamics at Prescott throughout the course of the night. Was it possible they weren’t up to speed onThe Upper Edge?

‘Do you have the login?’ Detective Wellesley asked.

Beatrice’s eyebrows flew up. ‘The login forThe Upper Edge? No.’