Page 101 of Old Money
“Who goes there?” Theo calls as I approach, my footsteps creaking loudly in the empty upstairs hall.
He’s hunched at his computer, and his desk is a swamp of paperwork: thick bound documents, legal pads and sticky notes everywhere, their corners fluttering lightly in the breeze from the window fan. The lights are off, the room lit only by the glow coming off Theo’s monitor. He leans in close, eyes flicking back and forth as he scrolls through lines of text.
“What’s with the darkness?”
Theo startles back in his seat.
“Alice?” He squints. “What is it? Did something happen?”
“Nice to see you too. Can I come in?”
Theo shakes his head, apologetic. He waves me in, gesturing to the visitor’s chair.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching to switch on the desk lamp. “They issued a brownout warning.”
“Ah.” I nod, understanding. “’Tis the season.”
Growing up, rolling brownouts were a frequent occurrence, especially during this stagnant stage of summer. If the forecast looked particularly hot, the power company would issue a warning, telling residents to be prepared for reduced power throughout the day. Mom always said it was better than having a blackout, but I disagreed. A blackout meant candles and board games, but brownouts were eerie—the lights suddenly going dim and buzzy, the blades of the ceiling fan circling slowly. Everything worked, but not quite.
Theo peers at his watch, frowning.
“Man, I didn’t realize it got so late. I’m just trying to catch up on my day job.”
“Jules told me.” I lift the paper bag in my hand. “She made tomato sandwiches.”
Theo takes the bag, waiting for me to explain.
“I need your help, Theo.”
He nods, his face calm and serious. “I’m listening.”
“It’s about Patrick. I— Okay, you know that podcast?” I press on, too nervous to pause for his answer. “I emailed them this afternoon and told them, you know, who I am.”
It was only two hours ago, actually. They haven’t even replied yet. The fight with Jamie had shaken me out of my funk, and I’d rushed back to the Alcott on a surge of adrenaline. I found a general contact form onThe Club Kid’s website, then dug around for direct addresses for two of the show’s producers. I sent a simple message saying I was a relative of Caitlin’s and I had new evidence I’d like to discuss with them. It was so easy—how had it ever seemed complicated?
“So, I’m going to be speaking with them—soon. Probably Monday?” I continue haltingly. This part isn’t so easy. “And then I’m going to village PD. To request a formal inquiry.”
Theo’s face registers nothing.
“You mean, you’re requesting a case review,” he replies in a level tone.
“Yes, but—” I clear my throat. “Yes, but ultimately, I’m seeking a formal reinvestigation. Specifically, into Patrick’s involvement.”
Theo sits forward, shaking his head, patience dwindling.
“Alice, they don’t just do that because someone asks. They can’t. They need new witness statements, DNA, some form of—”
“Compelling evidence,” I finish. “I know. I have that.”
Theo turns his ear toward me, as though he truly can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“I really do. Mr. Brody saw Patrick too. He saw a lot actually, and I have it on tape—”
I hold up my hands, bracing for Theo’s backlash, but he doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.
“But Theo, here’s the big thing:hesaw Patrick walking to the pool too.”
Theo’s rakes his fingers back along his scalp, tugging his hair in a fist. His gaze shifts into a distant stare, and I wait. I know this part still eats at him. When he stepped forward to speak up, he expected—as any fifteen-year-old should—that the adults would listen. Hell, he probably expected praise (that’s what adults usually gave him). Instead, they’d all gone silent. He’d never say so, but I think, for him, that was the biggest shock.
