Chapter 32 Saturday, 13 June 2026
Hannah stood in the hallway outside the Caraway Room, Edward Beaumont hovering too close beside her.
The scent of stale morning sweat had begun to seep from beneath his armpits, mingling with the fine Italian wool of his suit jacket and some overly musky cologne.
She stifled a gag as he raised his arm to rap on the door.
Detective Wellesley’s voice called out from inside the room. ‘Come in!’
Edward turned the knob, and Hannah stepped through the door.
Detective Wellesley was standing by the window, looking out.
The sun had fully risen, and the street was washed in bright morning light that seemed ill-fitting for the occasion.
Detective Crews was seated at the desk, tapping a pen repeatedly against the notebook spread open before him.
Empty brunch plates and two coffee mugs were stacked near the edge of the desk.
Edward stepped into the room to retrieve them while Detective Wellesley gestured to the open chair on the opposite end of the desk.
The chair in which Hannah had sat for her interview a little more than ten hours ago.
Now she was back, of her own accord.
‘No thank you,’ she said as Edward stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. ‘I’d rather stand.’
‘Mr Beaumont said you had some information to share with us?’ Detective Crews asked. He’d stopped the pen-tapping and was looking up at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Curiosity, or maybe bemusement. She walked past the desk and leaned against the large antique dresser.
‘I heard you’ve received several eye-witness accounts of Oliver Morgan in the hallway outside the restrooms, shortly before Madison DuPont collapsed there.
Truthfully, I’m not sure that’s meaningful.
’ The detectives exchanged an annoyed glance, and she rushed on before they could interrupt.
‘He could have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But—’ She paused for just a moment.
‘There is something about Oliver I think you should know.’
Detective Crews pushed back his chair, then perched on the edge of the desk. From her station at the windows, Detective Wellesley crossed her arms and frowned.
Hannah drew in a steadying breath. Was she really going to do this? Her plan might save her, but also – there would be no going back.
‘I believe the person who killed Madison DuPont was obsessed with her, likely ever since high school. Tonight was the culmination of a decade of fascination, and hatred.’
‘Yes, that all seems likely,’ Detective Crews agreed. ‘Go on.’
‘You have our phones, don’t you?’ Hannah asked. ‘They were all collected at the start of the night.’
‘We can’t release any devices,’ Detective Wellesley said. ‘Not yet.’
‘I’m not asking for my phone back, but I’d suggest you look through Oliver’s. It’s possible he deleted everything. Maybe there’s nothing left. But I doubt it. The account has been defunct for years, but I think you’ll find evidence that Oliver ran The Upper Edge.’
The detectives looked at one another. There it was – a jolt of energy passing between them.
It was the same feeling Hannah had experienced only moments ago, in the linen closet with Elle.
Because the person who ran The Upper Edge had been obsessed with Prescott’s elite – but they had also despised them.
And while she’d never known for certain, Hannah was very nearly sure that person was Oliver Morgan.
Detective Crews pulled out his own phone and stepped into the semi-privacy of the suite’s bathroom while Detective Wellesley produced the large velvet bag Hannah hadn’t seen since she’d deposited her own phone there at the start of the night.
From the bathroom, she could hear the detective requesting warrants to search Oliver’s devices, residence and person.
Very thorough, she thought with grim satisfaction.
‘Would you be able to identify Oliver Morgan’s phone?’ Detective Wellesley asked.
Hannah nodded. ‘I think so.’
While the detective began the slow process of overturning phone cases on the desk, Hannah’s thoughts drifted.
Near the end of senior year, on the night of Madison’s after-prom party, she’d sent four photos to the notorious gossip account.
In three of them, Oliver’s face had been dark, but visible.
But in the fourth, his back had been to the camera.
When the post went up on The Upper Edge, only the fourth photo had run, and someone had altered the picture to change the colour of Oliver’s shirt from deep eggplant purple to pale pink.
Oliver would have had no idea who sent in the photos; Hannah had created a burner account expressly for the purpose.
And when only the fourth photo had run with the caption, Who is this mystery man?
she’d never confronted him, either through the burner account or in person.
For one, she hadn’t been entirely sure the person behind The Upper Edge was Oliver.
The posts had always focused on Prescott’s old money elite and their adopted few, like Bruno.
Unless there was a major scandal – see exhibit A: the Gemma photos – the posts rarely strayed far from the usual suspects.
It was possible that whoever ran The Upper Edge had preferred to keep the focus on Bruno cheating on Ethan, and had thereby decided to create a little mystery around it rather than shining the spotlight on a new money nobody like Oliver.
Possible, but not very likely.
Much more likely was that Oliver, who had never been accepted by Madison or her crowd, who had lapped up every morsel of gossip Hannah had been able to provide once they’d befriended her, senior year, who had in adulthood made an entire career as a YouTube personality, had cut his teeth on The Upper Edge.
At the time, Hannah had put the thought out of her mind as swiftly as it had entered.
When the account had gone dark less than a month after the Bruno post, she’d been happy to see its reign of terror end and had quashed all thoughts of who had been behind it.
Because accepting that Oliver ran The Upper Edge meant accepting that he’d posted the Gemma photos – carelessly throwing his friend to the wolves, then lying to her face.
It meant accepting that Oliver was a person who cared more about silently manipulating his foes than he did about protecting Gemma from their wrath. Yet when he’d found himself in a similar position, photos of his hookup with Bruno landing in his DMs, he’d chosen to protect himself.
All of this had run through Hannah’s mind as graduation approached.
But confronting Oliver would have meant admitting she’d taken the photos and sent them to The Upper Edge – that she’d done the very thing to Oliver that he’d done to Gemma.
And while she could justify it all she wanted – it had worked, in the end, getting Madison off her ass and most importantly off Ami’s – the truth remained.
She’d put her needs before Oliver’s, and he’d only been spared because someone had decided to shield him from the school’s scrutiny.
And Hannah knew as well as anyone that the only person looking out for Oliver Morgan at Prescott was Oliver Morgan.
The iPhone in Detective Wellesley’s hand jolted Hannah back to the Caraway Room, back to the present. The holographic snakeskin case – a Gucci x CASETiFY Collab – was most definitely Oliver’s.
‘This one,’ she said.
‘You sure?’ the detective asked.
Hannah’s heart squeezed. If she was off the mark, if Oliver hadn’t run The Upper Edge, a failed attempt to point the finger would shoot her right back to the top of the suspect list. But the cards were stacking up against him in a way that was impossible to ignore.
First, the multiple eyewitness accounts of Oliver in the hallway.
Then, the revelation that Madison had orchestrated his firing from Winslow’s campaign and launched a crusade against his YouTube channel.
Most damning, perhaps, was the fact that he’d chosen to withhold all of it from Hannah.
If she was right about The Upper Edge, it added up to a decade of lies – and a decade of pent-up rage towards Madison DuPont.
‘I’m sure.’
Detective Crews was off the phone then, and Wellesley held up Oliver’s phone.
‘Got it.’
He nodded. ‘Becca’s on her way now with the warrants.’
‘It’s still circumstantial, though, isn’t it?’ Hannah asked, unable to shake her lingering unease. ‘Whoever ran The Upper Edge was clearly obsessed with Madison and Elle and Bash and the rest of them, but that doesn’t tie directly to Madison’s murder.’
‘No, it does not.’ Detective Crews met her eyes. ‘But this could be very useful information, Ms Miller. Thank you.’
A muscle in Hannah’s jaw ticked. If Oliver hadn’t killed Madison, she’d just implicated her friend in Prescott scandal to save herself… again.
She rose from her chair and gathered her clutch. Detective Wellesley had placed Oliver’s phone on the edge of the desk, and she and her partner were now engaged in the not-small task of returning the remaining devices to the velvet bag.
‘Am I done here?’ Hannah asked. The nasty start of a hangover was taking hold, even though she’d stopped drinking hours ago.
Her stomach sloshed, her neck was stiff and sore, and, worst of all, a headache had begun to pulse at her temples.
Probably as much the result of having handed Oliver to the detectives as any alcohol she’d consumed tonight.
Weakly, she gestured to the door. ‘I’ll just… ’
Detective Crews glanced up from his work and gave her a nod. Gratefully, she headed for the door.
She’d made it only a few steps when the sound of a dull thud outside was followed by a loud shriek, then another. For a moment, Hannah and the detectives froze. Then all three shot to the window.
From this vantage, it was hard to get a good look at the sidewalk directly below. Hannah’s view was blocked by a small balcony, and her thoughts ricocheted to her encounter with Theo earlier in the night.
‘How the hell do we get out there?’ Detective Crews muttered.
‘Here,’ Hannah said, fingers scrabbling for the brass door pull identical to the one Theo had used to access the hidden door in the other room.
It swung open with ease, and she unlatched the sliding glass door beyond.
Without a word, the detectives pressed past her, and soon all three were squeezed onto the narrow balcony, peering one storey down to the street.
Hannah gasped. In the bright morning sun, the shape of a body on the sidewalk below was unmistakable.