Page 90 of Murder on the Upper East Side

‘Ms Harrington,’ Detective Crews said sharply, flinging out his arm. ‘Please stand back.’

In one swift, practised movement, Detective Wellesley pulled Oliver’s arms behind his back and fastened a pair of cuffs. ‘Oliver Barrett Morgan, you are underarrest for the murders of Madison DuPont and Paul Harris.’

‘You cannot be serious.’ Oliver’s eyes were huge. He glanced around the club, frantic.

‘I’m very serious.’

He twisted in the detective’s grasp, face growing red. ‘You are out of your mind. I’ve never seen that remote before. Someone set me up.’

Hannah locked eyes with Oliver, searching for the truth there. She saw only panic.

‘I’m not a killer!’ He looked, wildly, between her and the detectives. ‘Think about it. If I killed Madison, why would I hang onto that thing all night?’

Hannah longed to believe him, but… didn’t some killers keep trophies? Souvenirs? They got overconfident and wound up incriminating themselves. Or even more likely, in the chaos of the night, he had simply forgotten he still had it with him, tucked into the inside pocket of his tux. The remote had been slim and light, no bigger than a pocket flashlight and much lighter in weight. It was, disastrously for Oliver, forgettable.

‘You have the right to remain silent,’ Detective Wellesley said. She took Oliver firmly by the elbow and began marching him through the club, towards the front door. ‘Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney…’

As the detective recited the Miranda warning,Hannah followed, the deep, queasy feeling in her stomach growing stronger. Her gaze landed on Elle, who was now sipping a glass of water at the bar, Beatrice by her side. She gave Hannah a satisfied nod. Hannah returned it with the barest flicker of a smile. It was all she could muster. She’d solved it, hadn’t she, with Elle’s help?

So why did she still feel so ill?

Because Oliver had been her friend, or at least she’d thought he had. The only person to really stick with her through the end of their time at Prescott, and beyond. Because while she was now squarely, mercifully, off the hook, at the end of the day she’d still wanted to be wrong. She’d still wanted the killer to have wound up being someone else.

The detectives were at the door now, with Oliver. He had grown silent, perhaps sobered by the recitation of his rights. Hannah hung back, thoughts spinning. If Mr Harris had figured it out as well, if he knew that Oliver had killed Madison, then why had he followed him up to the roof? Maybe Oliver had passed him a message, maybe he’d thought he was meeting someone else up there…

Or maybe Mr Harris had acted strangely at breakfast, casting Hannah’s suspicion wrongly onto him, because he’d known she and Oliver were friends. Maybehe’dinitiated the meeting with Oliver. Ever the teacher, maybe he’d planned to confront his former student in a private place, far from the detectives’ ears.

There were so many possibilities, but one thing was for certain: it had gone horribly wrong.

Hannah’s headache, which had retreated temporarily as Oliver’s shocking arrest played out, was now back with full force. If she’d only figured it out sooner, perhaps she could have warned Mr Harris. Instead, she’d suspected him of sleeping with Madison, a theory Elle had roundly debunked, while Oliver plotted his second murder of the night.

The front door was open now, and the detectives guided Oliver outside. Through the door, Hannah could see a cruiser parked on the street out front, waiting.

‘Come on,’ Detective Crews said firmly. He gave Oliver a shove through the door. ‘Time to go.’

Silently, Oliver allowed himself to be walked outside. As he went, he twisted his head around, eyes meeting Hannah’s once more. ‘Help me,’ he mouthed, and then he was out of sight.

Hannah stood in the doorway, shaking. It was over. She’d done exactly what she’d set out to do – help the detectives solve the case, exonerate herself.

A fresh wave of nausea hit. Clutching her stomach, she ran for the restrooms, not sure she was going to make it in time.

One week later

Hannah nursed her glass of Sauvignon Blanc, regretting asking for the five ounce pour instead of the nine, and wondering whether she’d been stood up. It was Saturday, twenty past four in the afternoon. Lilac Society, the trendy Lower East Side wine bar Gemma had picked, was bustling despite the early hour. But Gemma was nowhere to be seen.

Hannah had come from a matinée screening at the Tribeca Film Festival, followed by a Q&A with it’s edgy young director. Tonight, she’d turn it into a snippet forCulture Vault’s weekend roundup. ‘Behind the Curtains at the Lenox Club’ had run a few days earlier and was still generating more clicks than any other article on the site. After a brief phone interview with Chef Bernard, she’d focused her piece on the club’s secret menu items, hidden passageways and long-standing traditions, giving readers plenty to salivate over, despite her deliberate omission of the double homicide. But judging from the comments, readers were nevertheless devouring her peek behind the exclusive club’s curtains as if it might contain valuable evidence in the case.

In the dark jeans and gauzy blue top she’d worn to the screening, Hannah felt just barely dressy enough for this place. But if Gemma had changed her mind about today, Hannah had no intention of sticking around. And Gemma was now half an hour late.

Just as Hannah was about to take her final sip andclose out her tab, a petite blonde wearing a fitted black jumpsuit and wheeling a bright pink Away rollaboard suitcase arrived at her table and slid into the open seat across from her.

‘Sorry I’m late. Did I mention it’s my last night in town? I’m the worst at doing anything ahead of time, and, well…’ She gestured to her suitcase. ‘I’m going straight to the airport and I left too much to the last minute. Did you know LaGuardia is nice now?’

Hannah smiled. ‘So I’ve heard. I’m just glad you could squeeze in a drink before you left. I should have gotten in touch sooner, but honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to anyone about what happened. Then I read that Oliver’s hearing had been scheduled, and…’

‘And we were all friends,’ Gemma said quietly. ‘Once upon a time.’

Hannah nodded. Exactly. She hadn’t been in touch with Gemma for years, until the anniversary gala, but there’d been a time when the three of them had been close. She needed to ask Gemma the same questions she’d been asking herself all week: had she had any idea? How could she have been so wrong about one of her oldest friends?