Chapter 8 Friday, 12 June 2026
While Oliver remained behind closed doors in the Caraway Room, Hannah made a slow circuit around the club’s first floor, taking it in.
Most of the guests were in the lounge, either at the bar or seated around tables or by the low-burning fire.
A few had settled in the library or dining room.
She stopped to peer down the hallway where Madison had collapsed.
It had been taped off, and a sign directed guests to a second set of bathrooms off the dining room.
Then there were those who had come to the only slightly less chilling conclusion that the killer had been out to get Madison DuPont and Madison DuPont alone.
Those in this second camp milled about, increasingly hungry and irritated, eager for the detectives to conclude their interviews and let them all go home.
Eager for the detectives to make an arrest.
Wherever Hannah turned, eyes darted quickly away.
Public sentiment was squarely against her, and whoever the real killer was, they must be breathing easy.
Finally, her feet began to ache in the heels she regretted wearing, and she returned to the library, the quietest space in the club, to think.
She was about to settle down in the same corner where she’d spoken with Oliver thirty minutes ago when she noticed that one of the room’s three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves jutted out from the wall, whereas the others were flush.
It was the bookshelf that shared a wall with the lounge, furthest from the stained-glass windows.
Curious, she wandered over to take a closer look.
Indeed, the shelving was misaligned, and upon close examination, the book directly in the centre of the middle shelf stuck out – and appeared to be made of brass.
Hannah grasped the spine and gave it a firm tug, and the side of the shelving opened to reveal a small, recessed space.
Inside, atop a small wooden table, a single lamp burned low, casting dim yellow light on a velvet chaise, a stack of rare books, a bottle of bourbon and a single rocks glass.
It appeared to be a hidden reading nook, and thankfully, it was unoccupied.
Hannah slipped inside, closed the door behind her and settled on the chaise.
In front of her, a round portal window looked out on the lounge.
How clever. As she fiddled with the lamp, adjusting the brightness, her thoughts travelled back to the crime.
While there were no guarantees, the details found at the scene could help to exonerate her – or at least cast suspicion on a wider net of party-goers.
There would be a forensic analysis and toxicology reports.
She couldn’t imagine whoever had poisoned Madison’s drink had been so careless as not to wear gloves, but the forensics lab would likely be able to identify the type of poison used to kill her.
Perhaps that would narrow down the timing of the crime; a slow-acting poison might have been slipped into her drink when it was poured at the bar, before the welcome speeches had even begun. She’d been nowhere near Madison then.
If, however, a fast-acting poison had been used while Madison had left her drink in the restroom’s lounge area and stepped into a stall, the spotlight would stay squarely on Hannah.
Madison had, after all, announced her intention to visit the ladies’ room while they spoke.
And it was probably the only time Madison had set her martini glass down.
Either way, it might take days or weeks for any results to come back. And most likely, the labs wouldn’t help her case at all.
Hannah opened her clutch and took out her notebook and pen.
Over seventy guests were in attendance at the gala, mostly alumni and a few teachers and school officials.
In addition, there was the club’s small staff.
While it was possible that any one of them had murdered Madison DuPont, the most likely suspects were those closest to the victim, something it didn’t take a seasoned criminal investigator to figure out.
She moved several rare books aside, making room on the table for her notebook.
Then she leaned forward on the chaise and peered out the small portal window into the lounge.
It was possible, of course, that the killer had become close to Madison after they’d graduated.
In that case, it could be anyone here tonight, a heart-sinking possibility.
But Madison’s killer had chosen to make a statement, selecting a Prescott Academy gala as their stage – a gala Madison had been hosting.
The occasion suggested that whatever motive the killer had, it was tied to Prescott, very likely dating back to their school days.
The Queen of Prescott is dead. Which meant it was almost certainly someone Hannah knew from high school.
Feeling more confident than she had a moment ago, she opened her notebook to a fresh page – her prior notes on the décor in the lounge seemed laughable now, intended for an article she’d probably never write, not a murder investigation – and began a list.
Elle Harrington went right up top – she was, after all, the actual last person seen speaking to Madison, and could have easily followed her longtime friend – and rival – to the ladies’ room.
She’d made a huge, teary display of flinging herself at Madison’s corpse as she was being wheeled out by the paramedics.
Had that been genuine emotion – or a bit of theatre?
And then there was Edward. He’d been so quick to defend Elle when guiding Hannah up to the interview room – why?
Right under Elle’s name, Hannah wrote ‘Gemma Phipps’.
Few students at Prescott had refrained from tormenting Gemma following the release of the photos in senior year, but Madison had, without question, led the charge.
Gemma hadn’t even graduated from Prescott.
Why else would she come here tonight, to a fundraiser for the very school she’d been bullied out of, if not to exact her revenge on Madison DuPont?
Gemma had been keeping a low profile since her arrival – because she had something to hide? Hannah peered again through the portal window into the lounge. She located Gemma standing alone at the bar, sipping champagne from a tall flute. Champagne was a celebratory drink. That was interesting.
Hannah’s gut told her the killer was one of these two – Elle or Gemma.
First thought, best thought. She placed a star beside both names on the list. But her journalism training mandated she keep going.
After all, Madison had had complicated relationships with nearly everyone in her orbit. (And ‘complicated’ was generous.)
Next, she jotted down the names of everyone in Madison’s inner circle. Her friends – but also often her pawns. Below those, she added Edward Beaumont, who had been one year ahead of them in school and had made frequent trips home from Yale their senior year. He was inner-circle-adjacent.
She read through the list, feeling nearly certain that the killer’s name was staring back at her.
But she wasn’t quite done. Madison had had ‘complicated’ relationships with a few more people in attendance at the gala tonight, and while she didn’t strongly suspect Oliver Morgan, whom she knew better than nearly anyone here, or Alex, or Ami, she’d be remiss to leave them off.
Henry Alcott Winslow came next. Yes, he’d left during the speeches, but Hannah wasn’t about to write off the husband.
If slow-acting poison had been used in Madison’s drink, he’d rise right to the top of her list. She knew very little about their relationship, but if they’d been having problems, a Prescott gala might provide the perfect cover for a desperate spouse.
He had no personal ties to the school; who would suspect him?
Finally, she jotted down the names of the several Prescott teachers here tonight, plus the Head of School.
Madison had, after all, been a terrible student – smart, bored and overprivileged – and had routinely evaded school authorities, who found themselves frustratingly powerless against a DuPont’s reign of terror.
It was hard to imagine Mr Harris or Ms Caldwell retaliating with a lethal dose of poison, but it was important to be thorough.
Hannah capped her pen and reviewed the list of names. At one point or another, Madison had made each and every one of their lives miserable. But who among them was harbouring so much hatred, they’d want Madison dead – and actually see it through?
Her eyes returned to the top of the list, then she rose from the chaise and slipped from the reading nook, back into the main library. Alex DuPont and Tyler Marsden looked up from the club chairs they’d been occupying, clearly startled – and none too pleased – to see her emerge.
‘What’s back there?’ Tyler asked Alex, but without answering, Alex took his friend by the arm and pulled him away from Hannah.
Excellent. Either they were afraid of her or she didn’t merit their time.
Both options were preferable, she supposed, to a confrontation, but their swift retreat was a stark reminder that getting her former classmates to talk to her tonight was going to be an uphill battle.
Hannah wandered back into the lounge, where she had a full view of the club.
Elle was seated at the bar with Theo and Bash, nursing an Old Fashioned.
They were all prime suspects, but it would be futile to talk to the three of them together.
She’d need to bide her time until she could get each of them alone.