Page 76 of Murder on the Upper East Side

‘I never knew that.’

‘Mmm. Wish I’d stayed in tonight myself.’

Automatically, Hannah’s gaze drifted across the dining room, through the lounge, and into the hallway where Madison had been found. Where less than nine hours ago, someone had carried out a premeditated plan to end her life.

When she turned back to Mr Harris, his eyes were trained elsewhere – on the stairway leading to the second floor. A uniformed officer was still stationed at the base of the stairs, and Edward, still tasked with shuttling guests to and from their interminable interviews, hovered nearby. Otherwise, the stairway was empty. Finding Hannah’s eyes back on him, Mr Harris shifted in his seat and raised his mug to his lips. He looked uncomfortable, his mind elsewhere.

Time to change that, before her audience with Mr Harris ran out. She could ease into things, or she could be blunt, hope to startle the truth out of him. Hannah leaned in. She’d always preferred Option B.

‘Did you and Madison keep up your relationship after graduation?’

His mug hit the table with athunk, and he coughed into a napkin.

‘Excuse me,’ he said after a moment. ‘Wrong pipe.’

Hannah met his gaze, quietly watching as he took a minute to catch his breath.

‘What was that?’ he asked after a moment.

‘You and Madison,’ she repeated. ‘At graduation, it was clear she wanted to keep in touch. Did you maintain a relationship?’

Mr Harris let out a long sigh. ‘There was norelationshipafter Prescott. Madison had no sense of boundaries, and unfortunately, she had almost no parental guidance whatsoever. I felt a lot of sympathy for her, believe it or not. She was troubled, but it wasn’t entirely her fault.’

Good answer. Compassionate, teacherly. Hannah took another, smaller, bite of her bagel. A server was coming around, and she flagged him down for a mug of coffee. Maybe she was barking up the wrong tree, but she wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. When the server had gone, she tried again.

‘That’s very generous of you. It’s no secret that Madison made your life difficult during senior year.’

Mr Harris tore off a corner of his croissant, but let it drop to his plate. Again, his eyes darted around the club.

‘She tried her best. But if I grew to resent every student who came into my classroom with too much privilege and an entitled attitude, I wouldn’t have lasted two years at Prescott. Believe it or not, there were Madison DuPonts before her and after. I’ve gotten better at maintaining my boundaries as the years have gone by. That comes with experience.’

Hannah nodded. Again, an eminently reasonable response. Either Mr Harris had nothing to hide, or he was a skilled actor. Her use of the word ‘relationship’ had made him uncomfortable, but he definitely didn’t sound like a man so consumed by a decade-old grudge that he’d plan a former student’s murder, then carry it out at a public event.

‘What about you?’ he asked before she could formulate a question. ‘Did you and Madison maintain a relationship?’

Hannah shook her head, biting back a smile. Smart, turning it around on her. Assuming he was innocent, Mr Harris probably suspected her right along with everyone else here tonight.

‘Not even close. By graduation, Madison wanted nothing to do with me. Which was for the best.’ Her coffee arrived, and she doused it with sugar, then took a grateful sip.

‘You stayed in the city as well,’ he said. ‘At NYU, if I remember correctly?’

She nodded, struck by the sudden urge to call Grace. It had taken her best friend two whole years to forgive Hannah for abandoning their plans, but then Grace had joined her for a summer in the city when they were nineteen, and they’d slowly gotten their friendship back on track. Now, they talked when they could, mostly at odd hours between Grace’s long shifts as a resident at the Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh.

‘Journalism,’ Hannah said. ‘Class of 2021.’

Mr Harris smiled. ‘That’s right. A writer.’

‘You were working on a novel,’ she said quickly, before he could ask about her article. She needed to steer the focus back to him. There was still something she needed to figure out.

His face darkened. ‘Yes, that. Still a work in progress. Good writing takes time.’

She took another sip of coffee, then turned to her croissant. Many literary writers took a decade or more to write a book, that was true. But the look that had crossed his face…

Something occurred to her then. Was it possible…? ‘Before coming to Prescott, you went to graduate school?’

He nodded. ‘Straight out of undergrad. Couldn’t get enough of school.’

‘I’ve been thinking about applying to graduate writing programmes myself. Where did you go?’