Blue Bloods (Blue Bloods 1)

BobiAnne was adamant. "It would make your father and I very happy."

Later in the evening, Jordan knocked on Bliss's bedroom door. "Where were you on Friday night?" she asked, her chubby fingers resting on the doorknob, leaving sticky fingerprints on its gold plate. Jordan's dark eyes peered at her in an unnerving fashion.

Bliss shook her head. Her little sister was so strange. She was so alien to Bliss. When they were younger, Jordan had followed her everywhere like a lost puppy, and continually wondered why she didn't have curly hair like her sister, fair skin like her sister, and blue eyes like her sister. They used to be friends. But things had changed in the past year. Jordan had become secretive and shy around Bliss. It had been ages since Jordan had asked Bliss to braid her hair.

"At Block 122, you know, that private club all the celebs go to. It was in US Weekly last week," Bliss replied. "Why, who wants to know?" She was sitting on her princess bed, Committee papers spread out on the duvet. For a charity committee, there were an endless number of forms to be filled out, including a statement of acceptance, that included a commitment of two hours every Monday night.

"That's where she died, isn't it?" Jordan said darkly.

"Yeah." Bliss nodded, without looking up.

"You know who did it, don't you?" Jordan said. "You were there."

"What do you mean?" Bliss asked, finally putting down the papers.

Jordan shook her head. "You know."

"Actually, I have no idea what you're talking about. Didn't you get the 411? It was an overdose. Now, get lost, puke-face," Bliss said, throwing a pillow at the door.

What was Jordan talking about? What did she know? Why had her stepmother been so affected by Aggie's death? And what was the big deal about joining some charity committee?

She called Mimi. She knew Mimi was on The Committee, and Bliss wanted to make sure she was going to be at the meeting.

Catherine Carver's Diary

25th of November, 1620

Plymouth, Massachusetts

Tonight we celebrated our safe journey into our new home. We have joyful news - the people of this new land have welcomed us with open arms and many gifts. They brought wild game, a large bird that could feed an army, a bounty of vegetables, and maize. It is a new beginning for us, and we are heartened by the sight of the verdant land, the vast virgin acres where we will make our settlement. All our dreams have been realized. This is what we left our home for - so that the children may grow up safe and whole.

- C.C.

CHAPTER 8

When school let out, Schuyler caught the crosstown bus at Ninety-sixth Street, sliding her white student MetroCard in the slot and finding an empty seat next to a harassed-looking mother with a double stroller. Schuyler was one of the few students at Duchesne who took public transportation.

The bus slowly lumbered across the avenues, past a host of specialty boutiques on Madison, including the unapologetically-named "Prince and Princess" that catered to the elite under-twelve set - French-smocked cotton dresses for girls and Barbour coats for boys; pharmacies that stocked five-hundred-dollar boar's-hair brushes; and tiny antique shops that sold arcana such as mapmaking equipment and fourteenth-century feather quills. Then it was through the Central Park greenery to the west side of town, toward Broadway, a change of neighborhood and scenery - Chino-Latino restaurants, less snooty retail shops - then finally a steep right up Riverside Drive.

She had meant to ask Jack what he'd meant by his note, but she hadn't been able to catch him after class. Jack Force, who had never even paid attention to her before? First he knows her name, now he's writing her notes? Why would he tell her Aggie Carondolet was murdered? It had to be some kind of joke. He was playing with her, scaring her, most likely. She shook her head in irritation. It didn't make sense. And even if Jack Force had some overheated Law and Order-type insight into the case, why was he sharing it with her? They barely knew each other.

At 100th street, she dinged the yellow tape and stepped lightly out the automatic doors to the still-sunny afternoon. She walked up one block toward the steps carved into the landscaped terraces that separated the traffic and led directly to her front door.

Riverside Drive was a scenic Parisian-style boulevard on the westernmost side of upper Manhattan: a grand serpentine route dotted with stately Italian Renaissance mansions and majestic Art Deco apartment buildings. It was here that the Van Alens had decamped in the turn of the last century from their lower Fifth Avenue abode. Once the most powerful and influential family in New York City, the Van Alens had founded many of the city's universities and cultural institutions, but their wealth and prestige had been in decline for decades. One of their last remaining holdings was the imposing French-style palace on the corner of leafy 101st and Riverside Drive that Schuyler called home. Made of beautiful gray stone, it had a wrought-iron door and gargoyles standing guard at the balcony level.

But unlike the sparkling refurbished townhouses that surrounded it, the house badly needed a new roof; tiles, and a coat of paint.

Schuyler rang the doorbell.

"I know, I'm sorry, Hattie, I forgot my keys again," she apologized to their housekeeper, who had been with the family ever since Schuyler could remember.

The white-haired Polish woman in an old-fashioned maid's uniform only grunted.

Schuyler followed her through the creaking double door and tiptoed across the great hall, which was dark and musty with Persian rugs (so old and rare, but covered in a layer of dust). There was never any light in the room because, even though the house had several large bay windows that overlooked the Hudson River, heavy velvet curtains always covered the views. Traces of the family's former largesse were in evidence, from the original Heppelwhite chairs to the massive Chippendale tables, but the house was too hot in the summer and too drafty in the winter, without the benefit of central air. Unlike the Llewellyn's penthouse, where everything was either a pricey reproduction or an antique bought at Christie's, every piece of furniture in the Van Alen home was original and handed down from earlier generations.

Most of the home's seven bedrooms were locked and unused, and draped fabric covered most of the heirloom pieces. Schuyler always thought it was a little like living in a creaky old museum. Her bedroom was on the second floor - a small room she'd rebelliously painted a bright Mountain Dew yellow, to contrast the dark tapestries and stuffiness of the rest of the house.

She whistled for Beauty, and a friendly, gorgeous bloodhound ran to her side. "Good girl, good girl," she said, kneeling down and hugging the happy creature, letting it lick her face. No matter how bad a day she'd had, Beauty always made it better. The beautiful animal had followed her home from school one day last year. The dog was a purebred, with a glossy dark coat that matched Schuyler's blue-black hair. Schuyler had been sure her owners would come looking for her, and she had put up "Found Pet" signs in the neighborhood. But no one came to claim Beauty, and after a while, Schuyler stopped trying to find her rightful owner.