The dated locker room was one of the few places in the Club where Rose felt comfortable. At least she could be alone there. Surrounded by faded pink floral wallpaper and the yellowing Formica countertops, Rose’s heartbeat slowed. The women of the Club were constantly petitioning for a renovation, but there was never money left in the budget after golf course repairs, new meeting room accommodations, and the countless upgrades to the men’s locker room. Muzak played softly in the background, and the air was heavy with the scent of potpourri. She hadn’t realized how much the morning—or if she were being honest, James’s presence—had shaken her. She needed time to think.
She did a quick sweep of the locker room. When she was sure she was alone, she slipped through a hidden door into the laundry room. Technically, the employees-only parts of the Club were off-limits to Rose, but the laundress always took a late lunch. Lately, the rhythmic beating of the washers and dryers was the only noise that could drown out all the voices in her head.
The tension in her shoulders eased as she threw herself on top of a pile of freshly laundered towels heaped in the corner. She squeezed her eyes shut. The fluffy warmth of the towels, the drone of the washing machines … it was better than Ambien. Maybe she could sneak a nap and would finally sleep.
And then she heard the voices.
“She’s dead, and we know who killed her. We have to do something …”
Rose’s eyes snapped open.
“He killed my sister, and his brother is helping him cover it up.”
She stared at the vent in the ceiling. The voice belonged to Madge Ames-Rowan.
“But what about the police? Couldn’t we just talk to them? I mean, that detective seemed nice. He said he’d listen …” Rose could barely place the high-pitched, babyish voice of Sloane Liu. As many summers as she’d spent within an arm’s reach of the girl, she couldn’t remember ever hearing her speak.
“Impossible. You know who that detective is married to, right? You think they’d actually let a Club employee or her husband anywhere near him?” This voice was lower, raspy. It reeked of cigarettes at a bar all night. Lina Winthrop. It had to be.
“She’s right. The police aren’t an option. There’s not a single person on that boat who would dare accuse one of those boys of parking in a handicapped spot, let alone murder.” Madge’s voice was controlled. She sounded more like a beauty queen answering her final question than a grieving stepsister.
“But how do you know … I mean … we can’t be sure it was murder, right? It was probably just an accident. There’s no way he’d ever intentionally …”
There was a scraping and shuffling above. Rose had to stand up to try to make out exactly what was being said.
“… know exactly what they’re capable of. And I know my sister. There’s no way she fell off that boat, and even if she did, she won the two-hundred meter at the beginning of June. Something else happened, and whatever it was, it ended with James killing …”
Rose was out the door before Madge had even finished her sentence. She’d spent the last few weeks waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the chance to fix what was broken. This was it.
Madge was right. Her dad had good intentions, but there was no way in hell he’d end up charging James Gregory with murder. She was tired of the sleepless nights, of the guilt that felt like it was eating her alive from the inside out, of the disappointment in Mari’s eyes. Those girls might not know it yet, but they needed her.
She slipped out of the locker room and ducked into the parlor. It was empty, but she still cast a quick look over her shoulder before throwing her weight against the massive painting of Great Grandpa Gregory’s prize Great Dane, Wentworth, that lined the back wall. The wall creaked open to reveal a winding set of wooden stairs leading to the attic.
The girls had gone completely quiet above. Probably preparing to ream out the unfortunate housekeeper who had stumbled upon their little meeting …
But Rose wasn’t a maid. And the girls didn’t have the authority to kick her out. Well, not technically, anyway. Either way, she didn’t care.
She’d grown up watching waitresses submit carefully worded resignations. She’d seen the way the hands of the overweight old men would casually graze her mom’s body. And she could still hear her mom’s matter-of-fact warning, imparted on her twelfth birthday.
“There are certain situations that I can’t protect you from, Rosie. The Club has a lot to offer, but stay away from the dark rooms at the parties. If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, no one will be able to save you. Not even me.”