Page 104 of Old Money
That’s when I hear it.
Hovering above the sink, I shut off the faucet and hold still.
I hear it again, clearer this time.
I shut my eyes and breathe for a moment. I smell the flowery bar soap. I see the reddish-black insides of my eyelids. What do I hear? A name, coming from the television. Again.
“...found early this morning on the edge of Lyme Island Preserve, a forested island at the head of the St. Lawrence River, just east of Ontario Bay. The clothes were damp but neatly folded, suggesting they’d been there no more than a few days. The note was sealed in a plastic bag, inside one of the hiking boots, along with a driver’s license—which, authorities have now confirmed, belonged to Alexander Chapman.”
I stand in front of the television still holding my toothbrush, a scratchy towel tucked around me. On the screen, a handful of cops mill about in a small, unpaved clearing on the edge of a dense forest. They’re wearing jackets, which strikes me as odd, standing in my sunbaked room, my thighs already sticking together. Then I remember how far north they are. And that they’re on the water.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table, and I shuffle over to it, keeping my eyes on the TV.
“Hello?”
“Are you seeing this?” says Jamie.
“I’m watching now.”
A map appears on the television, showing an island the shape of a lopsided diamond. There’s a red circle on the eastern edge, highlighting the spot where Alex’s belongings were found. The anchor continues, speaking in a sober, wrapping-up voice:
“A maritime unit recovered Chapman’s kayak, partially submerged in a nearby cove, before suspending the search due to high waters. They hope to resume within the week.”
The screen cuts back to the newsroom.
“And now an update on thisheat! Pete, what do you say? Are we gonna break a record or what?”
I grab the remote and mute the television, dropping into the floral-print armchair beside me.
“Shit,” I say, mostly to myself. “When did they—”
“A few hours ago,” Jamie answers. “They got a tip.”
“What?”
“No.” Jamie sighs. “Not like that. It sounds like Alex called them himself. Before he did it.”
My phone buzzes against my ear—Jamie’s sent me a link.
“Just read it,” he says softly. “I’ll wait.”
I open my texts and see the small preview of the article, its grim headline cut off halfway through:
Briar’s Green Man Feared...
My stomach sinks. I think of Alex at the airport—his strange, swinging temper. The way he just unspooled his story for me.
“He said something, before he left.” I put the phone back to my ear. “He said he wanted to make a different choice this time.”
“Huh,” says Jamie. “Alice, that could’ve meant anything. You couldn’t have known he was planning this.”
“No. But I knew something was wrong.”
I lean back into the overstuffed chair, shutting my eyes against the bright sunlight.
“You know what’s awful?” I say, eyes closed. “What else is awful, I mean.”
“What’s that?”
