Chapter 9 Helena
I took a deep breath as I exited Columbia’s main campus building and stepped into the fresh air.
I’d spent half the afternoon sorting out my registration—the dean was a friend of my parents, so it hadn’t been a problem to transfer in the middle of term, but it still required a whole heap of bureaucracy to go from being a Cambridge student to a Columbia one.
Now, though, everything was done, and the week after next I’d be a psychology major here, just like in England.
Not that I was particularly interested in the subject—aside from the forensic science aspects—but as long as I was investigating Valerie’s case, it didn’t matter what was on my university ID.
Once upon a time, I’d planned to study travel and tourism and start a business with Valerie running city tours.
But that plan had died with her, so I’d chosen a subject that my parents considered respectable and were happy to support me in.
I didn’t know yet what I would do when I’d achieved what I set out to do.
For now, finding out the truth about Valerie’s death—and proving it—was all that mattered.
I bought myself a falafel sandwich from the Halal Guys food truck, found a quiet corner in one of the other campus buildings, got out my phone, and brought up Instagram.
My own account was empty; I hadn’t posted anything for a long time and had deleted all my previous photos.
My parents had insisted on it when they’d shipped me off to England as part of Operation Don’t End Up Like Valerie.
These days I only followed a few actors, singers, and other public figures I admired like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Michelle Obama.
All our old friends from the Upper East Side—mine and Valerie’s—I’d unfollowed out of choice.
It was too hurtful to watch them simply carry on with their lives as before, and after such a short time.
To see barely any of them using their considerable platform to stand up to the Coldwells and speak up for Valerie.
I’d reached out to a few of them after I’d realized, but I’d just got a load of bullshit excuses in response—like they didn’t want to endanger their brand contracts, or it wouldn’t help Valerie to go up against the Coldwells. The truth was they hadn’t cared.
My sister’s account, @allaboutval, was still active, since it hadn’t been deleted—or memorialized, as it was officially called.
My parents weren’t au fait with these things, and no one else had bothered to do it.
I had all the log-in details and had posted a black-and-white photo of her on her birthday and anniversary for the last few years, usually with a few words about her and a plea to remember her.
The reaction had been overwhelming. Her supposed friends might have abandoned her, but her followers hadn’t.
That was somehow comforting, even though none of them had known her like I did.
Some of the photos from before she died were of her and Adam—in black tie at New Year’s or in workout gear, surrounded by a mountain of fast food.
The first hashtag under these photos was always #westwell, the ship name their followers had given them—a combination of their surnames, although no one had ever thought it possible a Weston and a Coldwell would ever get so close.
We’d been rivals for years, after all. But that didn’t matter to Valerie and Adam, and so they melded into Westwell, a single entity, defying their families—who became bitter enemies for good after the two of them died.
I tore my eyes away from my sister and her boyfriend, switching instead to my phone’s photo gallery, and one image in particular.
It wasn’t easy to see on my screen, but I knew what it showed: a pinboard that I’d hidden in my closet in Cambridge, with all the photos, leads, and other information I’d managed to get ahold of relating to Valerie’s case.
I hadn’t brought the pinboard itself with me, but all the individual items I’d stuck on it were safe in a folder under a loose board in the closet of my bedroom in Park Avenue: extracts from the police report, printed-out Instagram photos of people who’d been there that evening, and a timeline I’d jotted down of what had happened at the engagement party.
I’d also put together a list of people who’d been partying with them in the suite, although that hadn’t been hard—they had all spoken out against my sister after the event.
All except one.
On a Post-it I’d stuck next to one of the photos was a name I was hoping would be the starting point of my search: Simon Foster.
He was the owner of a martial-arts club in Brooklyn where Adam had trained, and the two of them had become friends.
Simon wasn’t a socialite or part of the New York influencer scene, which was probably the reason he’d never bad-mouthed my sister on camera.
But I was hoping for something else. I was hoping that the reason Simon hadn’t spoken out publicly—even though he’d been Adam’s friend—was because he thought Valerie was innocent.
It would have been naive to think so, if it wasn’t for an entry in the police file: Simon’s statement from the morning after Valerie and Adam’s death.
In it, he’d said he was convinced that there were no drugs at the party.
He didn’t give a reason, but I was sure one existed.
I was going to find Simon and ask him about it. As soon as possible.
I finished my sandwich and headed out to the street, where a black car was waiting for me a block down. Raymond, my mother’s driver for the last twenty years, put his phone aside as I opened the rear door.
“You get everything finished, Miss Helena?” he asked politely.
“Yes, thanks.” I’d had a brief discussion with Mom that morning—I didn’t want to take her car, but she’d insisted.
And not only that, she was planning to hire me my own driver.
Just what I needed. How was I supposed to look for leads and investigate the case with a babysitter on my heels, reporting to my parents?
I’d have to find a way to talk them out of it.
“Do you want to go anywhere else, or shall I take you home?” asked Raymond.
“No, we can head home.” Then something occurred to me.
“Wait a second—could you take me to the office?” My dad had returned this morning, but I hadn’t seen him yet since he’d gone straight to work from the airport.
The firm’s office building was just a few blocks away, and I had some time, so I wanted to go see him.
“Of course. With pleasure.”
The car set off, and I got my phone out again.
I’d saved the page for Simon Foster’s fight club in my favorites.
It was in North Brooklyn, pretty much right next to the bridge—not exactly an obscure location.
While I was doing my research, I’d gotten the impression he must be pretty popular, from the professional-looking logo and more than four hundred reviews.
I paused for a moment before activating the privacy screen between Raymond and me and tapping the phone number that came up on Google. After two rings, a woman picked up.
“Tough Rock Sports Club, Demi speaking. How may I help?”
“Hi, this is Helen Miller.” Simon didn’t know who I was, so I’d decided to go incognito, mostly so that my parents didn’t get wind of it.
It wasn’t a very original fake name, but I knew if I chose something completely different, I wouldn’t answer to it, and that would give me away immediately.
“I’d like to arrange a trial session with you, if possible. ”
“Sure. Do you have experience in any kind of martial-arts training?”
I glanced cautiously at the intercom button, but the light was out—Raymond couldn’t hear me.
“I did two years of kickboxing and Krav Maga in England,” I replied.
It was true—I’d done my best to hide it from my family, though, along with the lessons from a security company guy who’d taught me how to pick a lock.
I’d paid cash and told him I was an actress and needed it for a movie. “I’d like to keep going with it.”
“Sounds like Rafe is the man for you. I’ll just have a look and see when he’s got a slot.” I heard the click of a mouse. “Okay, it’s short notice, but I can see that someone’s canceled for tonight. Can you come by at seven? Otherwise, the next free slot is Wednesday of next week.”
Tonight, already? Perfect.
“No, seven tonight is great. Thanks so much.” I hung up, on a real high for the first time since I’d been back in New York. I was booked in at the club whose owner might know something about Valerie’s death. Time to see what I could find out.
I’d just put my phone away when it began to ring. I pulled it out again and took the call.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to let you know that we’re having a family dinner this evening, since your father’s back. We’ll eat at seven. Lincoln and Paige will be there, too. Where are you, anyway? It didn’t take you all this time to enrol at college, did it?”
“Raymond’s taking me to the office; I want to say hi to Dad,” I said simply, ignoring her blatant attempt to control me.
“I’ll see you later.” I lowered the phone from my ear, rolled my eyes, selected the number I’d just called, and waited for Demi to pick up.
“Hi, it’s Helen Miller again.” I suppressed a sigh.
“Unfortunately, something just came up for this evening. When is the next appointment again? I’ll take that one instead. ”