Chapter 22 Saturday, 13 June 2026
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 by The Upper Edge before the account closed for good in June 2017.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Anyone who attended Prescott between 2013 and 2017 knows The 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 on The Upper Edge?
‘Do you have the login?’ Detective Wellesley asked.
Beatrice’s eyebrows flew up. ‘The login for The Upper Edge? No.’
Did they think she’d run the thing? Jesus.
Detective Crews picked up his phone, opened Instagram. ‘There are screenshots online. Quite a few, actually. But we’d like to review more content.’ He handed his phone to Beatrice.
She promptly placed it on the desk. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do. The account has been dead for years – whoever ran it took it down ages ago. That screenshot you had up earlier was the final post, class of 2017 graduation. After that, The Upper Edge went dark.’
‘But there’s an archive?’ Detective Crews said.
She shook her head. ‘If it exists, it’s not public. The Upper Edge removed all the old posts; I don’t have access to them any more than you do.’
Why were they asking her, of all people, about The Upper Edge?
She’d been vigilant about never commenting, and she’d only ever appeared in two posts during the account’s prolific four-year history.
Sophomore year, she and Theo had organised a charity fashion show, and they’d been photographed giving the introduction.
Another time, a post had run of her at a Prescott party, standing beside Elle and Bash.
Both posts had been rather innocuous bits of gossip, neither focused on her.
And neither had involved Madison DuPont.
Detective Wellesley spoke up. ‘Even without the full post archive, it’s clear from what we’ve seen that your friends were frequently the focus of the gossip shared by The Upper Edge.
Yet, you don’t appear in any of the photos.
Your Instagram handle, @Bea_UT, never appears in the comments.
That’s not the case for anyone else in Madison DuPont’s circle. ’
Beatrice frowned. So, flying under the radar was precisely the thing that had snared their attention. Perfect.
She gave them a noncommittal shrug. ‘You’ve only seen a handful of screenshots, right? The Upper Edge posted daily, sometimes twice a day, for four years. That’s over a thousand posts with thousands more comments. Maybe the internet just didn’t see Beatrice Whitmore content fit to memorialise.’
‘So, you’re saying you did appear on The Upper Edge?’ Detective Crews asked. ‘If we had the full archive, we’d see posts about you? We’d find your comments?’
Beatrice swallowed. What, exactly, did they know? Someone else must have called their attention to her (lack of) history with The Upper Edge… Someone who suspected she had something to do with Madison’s murder?
She sighed. There was no point in lying about it. They could ask any number of guests here tonight, and they’d all speak to her noteworthy absence from the Prescott gossip mill.
‘Only a few,’ she conceded. ‘Look, you may have noticed that nearly everyone you’re interviewing here tonight is white.
When you’re a student of colour at Prescott Academy, you have two options for survival.
You can claw your way to the top like Elle Harrington.
Ascend your throne and never look down, no matter what the haters may fling at you.
Or you can choose to occupy the fringes.
Stay out of the drama. Stand just outside the shot. ’
‘And that was you?’ Detective Wellesley asked. ‘Standing just outside the shot?’
‘Something like that,’ Beatrice said. What explanation did she owe this cop with pale skin and buttery yellow hair? None of this had anything to do with Madison’s murder – the only thing they had any right to ask her about. She began to push back her chair. ‘If we’re done here—’
‘We’re not,’ Detective Crews cut in. ‘Please sit.’
Reluctantly, Beatrice settled back in her chair, arms folded across her chest.
‘Whoever ran The Upper Edge was clearly very interested in Madison DuPont’s life.
Obsessed, even. Yes, we have access to a limited number of posts, but Madison and her friend group are the focus of a disproportionate number.
No one in her circle escaped The Upper Edge’s attention – except you, it seems.’
‘So?’ Beatrice asked. ‘As I’ve already said, I stayed out of their drama. I never gave The Upper Edge anything to gossip about.’
‘Or did you run it?’ Detective Wellesley asked point-blank.
Beatrice laughed. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then who did?’
‘No idea. No one ever found out.’
‘You must have a theory,’ Detective Crews said.
This was absurd. Did they really think the person who ran a decade-old gossip account was the same person who’d killed Madison DuPont?
The person behind The Upper Edge had been obsessed with Madison.
They’d been envious of her beauty and power, probably to the point they hated her a little. But that described all of Prescott.
‘I really don’t,’ she said finally. ‘It could have been literally anyone.’
The person behind The Upper Edge. Madison’s killer too.
‘What about Hannah Miller?’ Detective Wellesley asked.
Beatrice frowned. ‘The account started posting in 2013, our freshman year. Hannah didn’t transfer to Prescott until 2016, so it’s not very likely.’
‘Unless she knew someone at the school, perhaps. Someone feeding her tips?’
She shook her head slowly back and forth. Hannah very well might have killed Madison. But casting her as the mastermind behind The Upper Edge was sheer idiocy. Wasn’t it?
‘One more thing.’ Detective Crews retrieved his phone from the desk, pulled up another screenshot. This was a classic post – the last in the photo series of poor Gemma Phipps. The mysterious Prescott boy could be seen reflected in the background, taking the picture.
‘The comments make it clear that Madison and those close to her fanned the flames repeatedly when these pictures were shared. We know the woman is Gemma Phipps. Who’s this?’ He tapped at the image of the male figure, his identity as mysterious now as it had been a decade ago.
‘I can tell you who it isn’t – Theo Fitzgerald. He was in love with Elle, and what happened to him was a smear campaign. Madison got high on terrorising Gemma, and Theo got caught in the crossfire.’
It had been more complicated than that, of course. She’d been one of the few let in on the full story, eventually – much to her own frustration. But the detectives didn’t need to know every detail of her past.
‘If not Theo, then who?’ Detective Crews pressed.
‘You’re asking me a whole lot of questions I don’t have the answers to. But if I was in a gambling mood, I’d say the person in that picture is probably here tonight.’
Detective Wellesley leaned in. ‘Why’s that?’
She shrugged. ‘Just a hunch. Great turnout from the Class of 2017, what with Bash and Madison co-hosting the gala.’
The cops shared a silent look. Detective Wellesley nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Detective Crews pulled up a final image on his phone. Bash, leaning against the wall in the first-floor hallway, as Beatrice had seen him do a thousand times during their years at Prescott.
‘Did Sebastian Beaumont ever wear glasses? For vision correction, or perhaps as a stylistic choice?’