Murder on the Upper East Side

Prologue Friday, 12 June 2026

Eight minutes before the murder

I’ve been planning Madison DuPont’s murder for a very long time. That final year at Prescott, I thought about it nearly every day. Knife, pistol, antifreeze. I imagined the ways I would do it. I was a veritable Miss Scarlet.

Then graduation came, and I thought that would be the end of it all. The manipulation. The blackmail. The cruelty. But it didn’t stop. She didn’t stop.

The welcome speech is wrapping up. Madison stands at one of a pair of lecterns in the Lenox Club’s wood-panelled library, surrounded by a crowd of seventy or so alumni and a few teachers and staff.

The panels of Victorian stained glass overlooking the courtyard in the back cast an almost magical glow across their tuxes and evening gowns.

In her best host voice, Madison encourages everyone to have another Belvedere cocktail while they wait for dinner to be served.

As she lifts her martini glass to her lips, long red hair glowing in the warm overhead lights, my whole body buzzes.

If I have to wait all night to make my next move, I will.

But I hope it won’t take that long. She gives the crowd a winning smile, and I flash her a wide grin in return.

I wonder if it will play back across her eyelids as the life drains from her body. If she’ll know it was me.

For a few minutes following the speech, Madison is swept up in conversation with her devotees – some of whom loathe her nearly as much as I do. Impatiently, I wait. I remind myself this could take a while. But my moment will come.

Then, sooner than I’ve dared to hope, she announces she’s going to the ladies’. ‘Haven’t had a moment to myself since Henry’s fundraiser. I need to freshen up.’ Her martini glass is still in her hand, half-full.

My breath catches. This is it.

Madison exits the library, peach gown fluttering behind her, and walks down the hall to the restrooms. Barely able to contain my excitement, I follow her, keeping my movements casual.

In the lounge, which is now bustling with guests chatting at tables and refreshing their drinks, I pause to rest my hands lightly on the back of a chair and peer down the hall until I see the door to the ladies’ room swing shut behind her.

Showtime. While I give Madison a minute to get settled, I reach inside the small bag I’ve brought with me and check that I have everything I need. Then my fingers find the small black remote I lifted from the reception desk earlier in the night, and I kill the lights.

Instantly, the club fills with gasps of confusion. In the dining room, a water glass smashes, then a chair clatters to the floor. A man near me bangs into a table and curses. Without waiting for my eyes to adjust, I hurry down the corridor towards the restrooms, stumbling a bit in the dark.

Inside the ladies’ room lounge, a candle burns in a jar on an antique vanity table.

Gardenia. It casts just enough light for me to see Madison’s martini glass, which rests on a ceramic coaster beside a crystal decanter of cucumber water and a porcelain tray of perfume samplers.

I let out a long breath. Mercifully, her glass is still half-full.

‘Hello?’ Madison calls out from the adjoining room, which is appointed with marble sinks and three stalls with brass-handled doors.

I’ve been here before, of course, have clocked every detail.

The stall doors extend fully to the vintage tile floor.

It would be very, very dark inside. ‘Is there anyone else in here?’

I don’t respond. I need to work quickly. I slip the vial of poison from my bag, empty it into her drink and stir. I’m careful not to touch her glass, even with my gloved hands.

‘Hello?’ Madison calls out again, louder this time. ‘I can’t find the damn latch. Is there anyone who can help me?’

Grinning, I slip back out into the hall, the door closing silently behind me. In the lounge, a Lenox Club staff member is shouting something about an emergency generator. I’ve disabled that, of course. Silently, I palm the remote and fade into the crowd. Then I switch the lights back on.

‘Oh thank the lord,’ the woman beside me mutters. She’s an older alum, class of ’72 or ’73, if I had to make a guess. As she grips her husband’s elbow, and the gala guests breathe a collective sigh of relief, I wait.

The party resumes, and anxiety crashes over me. There are still so many things that could go wrong with my plan. Madison could abandon her drink in the restroom. She could pour it down the sink, ask the bartender for a fresh one.

But when ethereal, impenetrable Madison DuPont emerges from the ladies’ room, she’s staggering. Her eyes are unfocused, and the now-empty martini glass tumbles from her hand, then rolls across the carpet. She claws at her neck, gasping for breath.

The anxiety drains away, replaced by pure, sweet relief.

You drank it all down.

Good girl.