Page 115 of Cashmere Cruelty

“Great,” Yuri snarks. “A wife-beater. What a catch.”

I scan the page. Luckily, I don’t see April’s name anywhere on this. Only Eleanor’s and a certain Charlie’s, plus a couple of pictures of nasty bruises.

Charlie—that must be the brother April mentioned.

I inhale through my nose. Just because something hasn’t been reported, it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It doesn’t mean April wassafe.

I snap the section shut. “What about April’s biological father?”

Grisha turns to a purple-coded page. “Dominic Flowers, aged fifty-seven. Has three more daughters by his second wife, all teenagers: Anne, Catherine, and Diana Flowers-Le Blanc.”

“This says they live in the Upper East Side,” Yuri comments, elbowing Grisha away.

That’s the first thing I noticed, too. By the looks of these records—bank statements, properties, shares—the Flowers family should be loaded.If April came from money, why would she share a ratty Brooklyn hole-in-the-wall with a friend who worked minimum wage? Why would she stick to a diet of pre-packaged mac and cheese?

Why would shestruggle?

“Her address,” I demand. “Show me her addresses across the years.”

Grisha obliges. “Until the age of seven, she lived with her parents in Manhattan. Then—” He points at the next line over. “—here. For the next ten years or so.”

A Brooklyn brownstone. “This is registered to Dominic Flowers.”

“It is,” Grisha confirms. “But Dominic wasn’t living there. Instead, this person was.”

I glance at the unfamiliar name:Maia Toussaint.

“This woman,” I say. “Maia. Tell me about her.”

Grisha’s about to turn the page when Yuri finally manages to slither under his arm. “Maia Toussaint,” he reads out loud. “Born in Haiti. Green Card by marriage to one Augustus Flowers.” He frowns. “That’s not April’s dad, is it?”

“It’s not,” Grisha answers. He settles his chin obnoxiously on Yuri’s head in retribution and continues, “That’s April’s grandfather. He died shortly after she was born. Maia was his second wife—Dominic’s mother had already passed.”

“It looks like Maia lived with Dominic throughout most of his first marriage,” Yuri says, scanning the page. “Then, when he split, she must’ve taken April in.”

Maia Toussaint. April’s grandmother by marriage, not by blood—and yet, from these files, she might have been the only one who truly cared about her.

“There’s no record of a custody battle,” I observe.

“Not exactly,” Grisha clarifies. “The court transcript says there was a brief scuffle between Eleanor and Dominic over who was going to keep the child, but for the opposite reason.”

Yuri frowns. “Meaning?”

“Meaning neither one wanted custody.”

I clench my fist under the table. No wonder April’s so jaded about blood. All her life, she’s been betrayed by the ones she came from—and saved by the ones who had no obligation to help her.

“Oh,” Yuri mutters. “This says Maia…”

“She died.” Grisha nods. “Seven years ago.”

Seven years ago.How old was April then? Sixteen? Seventeen?

That’s when her address records become a mess, I realize. Staten Island to the Upper East Side, then Staten Island again—switching schools, switching houses. Every few months, she’d be ping-ponged between her parents. “What the hell?”

“There’s your custody battle,” Yuri says grimly. “A shadow war of‘You take her; no, YOU take her.’”

“After Maia’s death, the brownstone was sold,” Grisha fills in. “It was sudden. She didn’t leave a will, or at least none that I could find. Dominic got everything.”

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