Chapter 6 Friday, 12 June 2026
The initial shock of Madison’s death had worn off, replaced by the realisation that no one was going home anytime soon.
The glares on the faces of her fellow alumni said that Hannah was to blame.
She’d been the first called up for an interview.
And if anyone here hadn’t known about her article, they did now.
While she was upstairs, word had spread.
The detectives suspected her. And now so did everyone else.
There was only one way out of this. Before she was arrested for Madison’s murder, Hannah was going to have to find the real killer.
She was hardly an investigative reporter, but her journalism training had taught her to pay attention, listen closely and ask good questions. She could do this, right?
She took two steps forward, then two more, past the reception desk and into the lounge.
Her former classmates and fellow alumni adjusted their positions, turning their chairs subtly away from her, or seized by the sudden urge to reread the bar list. Killer Hannah Miller.
What choice did she have? While the club was on lockdown, she would conduct her own investigation.
A hand came down on her shoulder. She spun, expecting to find Edward Beaumont glowering at her again.
‘Oliver. You scared the shit out of me.’
‘Sorry, looked like you needed rescuing. Come on.’ He gestured across the lounge, to the open library doors, and gratefully, she followed.
‘What happened up there?’ he asked when they’d settled on a velvet-cushioned window seat in a vacant corner of the library. On the wall to their right hung backlit framed maps of old Manhattan, rendered in warm sepia tones. ‘Are you okay?’
Hannah drew in a long breath. The room smelled of mild cedarwood, old books and faintly sweet beeswax polish.
After the packed lounge, the half-empty library was a relief.
But she could hardly relax. ‘They’ve already made up their minds.
The detectives know the DuPonts, the Winslows, the Beaumonts…
every powerful family represented here.’ She gestured broadly around the club.
‘They are not going to take most of tonight’s guests seriously as suspects in Madison’s murder.
And I very recently and very publicly denounced the people who fund their precinct.
Besides, I had the bad luck to be seen speaking to Madison moments before she died – she waved her martini glass and told me to get lost.’
Oliver grimaced. ‘That is bad luck.’
‘They won’t confirm how she died, since we’re all obviously suspects, but Madison took her drink into the ladies’ room. I watched her carry it down the hall. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that someone followed her and slipped poison into her glass. It just wasn’t me.’
‘Of course not.’ Oliver gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
Hannah sighed. ‘Thank you for believing me. It means a lot.’
‘Hannah. I’ve got you.’
She smiled. ‘Anyway, they’re talking to Ms Caldwell now, surely salivating over all the high school gossip she’s willing to impart. Which is entirely irrelevant, but it’s going to make me look guilty as sin.’
‘Fuck.’ Oliver downed the rest of his Empire Mule and set the sweating copper glass directly on top of an ancient-looking tome resting on a nearby end table.
‘It’s fine,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t kill Madison, but someone here did. While the detectives run their investigation, I’ll run my own. I’m going to figure this out.’
Oliver wrapped his arm around Hannah and drew her in close.
She breathed in the spicy cologne clinging to his very loud, very green tux.
Beneath the jacket, his dress shirt remained unbuttoned at the collar, displaying a neatly waxed chest and an iced-out gold chain.
‘You can definitely do this. You know I’m also persona non grata around here, but I’ll help, in whatever way I can. Justice for Hannah.’
‘Thank you. Again.’ For a moment, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into her friend’s support.
To their left, two men and a woman Hannah vaguely recognised as members of Alex DuPont’s class huddled together on a sofa.
Directly above them hung a sign written in assured calligraphy: The Library is a space for quietude and intellectual pursuit.
Their exaggerated whispers carried easily to Hannah’s ears.
‘Did she even have any real friends?’ The woman grasped at a strand of natural pearls in a gesture so apt it almost had to be intentional. Although perhaps that was giving her too much credit. ‘Everyone’s acting so sad, but it’s just for show.’
‘Well, no one wants to look guilty, do they?’ asked the man with tight brown curls.
‘Madison was a bitch,’ said the man with a trim blond moustache. ‘I said it. She acted like fucking royalty at school, and we let her walk all over us. But the worst part is, it didn’t stop at graduation.’
‘Exactly,’ the woman agreed, vibrating like a plucked tuning fork. ‘Acting like she earned her spot at Columbia when you just know Mummy and Daddy bought her way in. Either that or she bribed the Dean of Admissions.’
‘Or blackmailed him,’ tight brown curls snorted. ‘You know how she worked.’
Blond moustache gave his head a disapproving shake. ‘She was always flaunting her success, but she didn’t even have a real job. What was she doing with her fancy degree and all that money? Nothing.’
‘Not to speak ill of the dead, but…’ The woman wrapped her pearls around a slender finger. ‘It’s just a fact that everyone here tonight hated her. Especially the people who pretended to be her friends. Like Hannah Miller.’
Hannah felt the woman’s eyes dart towards her, and she burrowed her head further into Oliver’s shoulder, trying to pretend she hadn’t heard.
Tight brown curls spoke up next. ‘If not Hannah, I bet it was Alex. You know how Madison always pushed him around.’
‘Her own brother?’ the woman hissed. Hannah risked a glance in their direction. That was interesting.
Blond moustache frowned. ‘They’d better figure it out soon. I have tickets to Tristan und Isolde tomorrow, and I need my beauty sleep.’
Then Edward Beaumont was in front of Oliver and Hannah, clearing his throat. Hannah straightened. She’d been too busy eavesdropping to notice his arrival. ‘Come with me, Oliver. The detectives wish to speak to you next.’
Oliver Morgan followed the elder Beaumont brother through the lounge and up the narrow set of stairs to the Lenox Club’s second floor.
Whatever Ms Caldwell had told detectives, it must have painted him in a pretty bad light.
After all, he hadn’t said a damn word to Madison from the moment she’d arrived at the club, till the moment she’d keeled over in the hallway.
But whoever had killed her had had the good sense to kill the lights too, and now everyone was fair game.
Or maybe the detectives were simply building their case against Hannah.
She and Oliver had maintained a casual friendship post-Prescott, something Ms Caldwell may or may not have known.
Either way, the Head of School would have certainly told the detectives about Hannah’s ability to juggle friend groups during her year at Prescott, flitting from party to party with Madison and Elle, but retreating to the safety of Oliver’s company when things got too heated among the ‘in’ crowd.
‘In here.’ Edward opened the door to the Caraway Room, then stepped aside.
Oliver took in the two detectives seated in leather rolling chairs behind the room’s large mahogany desk. He took the seat opposite while they introduced themselves, pressed play on a recorder and asked him to state his name.
‘Oliver Nicholas Morgan. And yeah, I’ll speak to you.’ He squared his shoulders. He had absolutely nothing to hide… as long as the detectives stuck with the past.
Detective Raina Wellesley spoke first. ‘I gather you and Hannah Miller are close friends.’
Oliver swallowed. ‘We’ve kept in touch.’
‘What can you tell us about Hannah’s relationship to Madison DuPont?’
He sighed. ‘That’s easy. They don’t have a relationship, haven’t since high school. Seriously, you’re barking up the wrong tree with Hannah. She doesn’t give a damn about Madison, and frankly, they were barely even friends at Prescott.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Detective Crews cut in, ‘because Ms Miller told us they were close back then. Would you say Hannah mischaracterised their friendship?’
Well, fuckity fuck. He’d only been trying to help, but somehow he’d made matters worse.
‘No, look. They were friends, but it wasn’t a real friendship.
Madison used people, and Hannah was fresh meat.
A fascinating new specimen for Madison to toy with.
The point is, Hannah moved on with her life ages ago. She definitely didn’t kill Madison.’
‘Mmm,’ Detective Wellesley murmured. ‘That’s quite a tux. Dolce & Gabbana?’
Oliver nodded, startled by the topic swerve. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. And yes, it’s D&G.’
‘It certainly stands out at a venue like the Lenox Club.’
He pressed his lips together. What was she getting at? ‘I work in the lifestyle space. My followers are self-made millionaires, or aspire to be. There’s more than one way to wear your success on the Upper East Side.’
Detective Wellesley smiled. ‘Indeed. I gather you’ve always stood out among the legacy lot at Prescott.’
He settled back in his chair. He knew where this line of inquiry was going, but he could control the narrative.
‘My parents founded Morgan Row in 1996, catering to ambitious buyers seeking entry-point elegance on the Upper East. By the early 2000s, they were grossing over two hundred million annually in high-end residential sales. Morgan Row represents New York’s future – not its past.’ He paused to adjust the diamond chain around his neck.
‘Families like the Beaumonts can’t stomach our success, never mind that Beaumont Capital is a listing agency with residential and commercial clients, nor that their annual gross is nearly twice Morgan Row’s. ’