Page 117 of Old Money
Cory’s chin drops.
“No shit, you were at Wheaton with Yates?”
The look on his face—like he’s only just realized I too am a person, just like him.
“Different year.” I nudge his chin. “Head up.”
“Did you know that girl he killed?”
It’s the casual certainty in his voice. The nonchalance.That girl he killed. It’s just a fact. He doesn’t even say it quietly.
“Yes,” I answer. “I knew her a little.”
“So fucked up,” Cory says to the ceiling.
Again, that mumbled, offhand certitude, like it goes without saying—this thing I’ve waited decades to hear someone else say.
I give the tie a final pinch, then step back to check it, though my eyes are filmed with tears.
“Good enough.”
“Cool,” Cory says, already turning toward the staff door—oblivious as usual.
I put a hand to my abdomen and tell myself to breathe.
I smell the fireplace. I hear the crowd laughing outside. I see—
My eyes come to rest on a bookshelf by the door—on one shelf in particular.I see—I see a row of books that don’t quite fit in. They stick out, just slightly, over the edge of the shelf. And though the spines are leather bound and dusty like the others, they aren’t actually books. They’re binders.
Chapter Fifty-One
Ishove the first one back onto the shelf and grab for the next binder with fast, shaky hands. I tear through the pages, looking for dates before anything else. No, this one is too recent—the first entries are from 2010.
But this is it. This is what we’ve been looking for. I don’t know what’s in the archive, but it’s not the incident reports. They’ve been here for the taking, the whole time.
I open another and flip through. Judging by the brittle pages, no one’s taken them off the shelf for years—maybe even decades.
Each sheet is topped with the date, time and incident type, followed by a brief summary—most of them one or two paragraphs in Mr. Brody’s familiar script. The majority are common infractions: someone wearing shorts inside at the grill, kids joyriding in golf carts, the occasional fender-bender in the driveway after a party. I’d estimate half the entries are regarding late dues or unpaid bar tabs, but I know I’m in the right place. Flipping through pages, I catch flashes of words like “injury” and “intoxicated” and more than one mention of shouting.
I crack open a fourth binder, brush past the first few pages and then suddenly, it’s there.
Date:July 4, 1999
Time/Time of Day:Evening
Location:Pool
Incident Type:Death
Summary:The body of Caitlin Dale (daughter of member Gregory Dale) was recovered from the pool shortly after the fireworks display, during the annual Independence Day party. Ms. Dale had been excused from the party by her mother (Barbara Dale) earlier in the evening, following complaints of disruptive behavior and presumed inebriation. Upon excusal, she exited the clubhouse and absconded to the pool area, along with her cousin (non-member guest/child). Shortly thereafter, a young man was observed departing the north exit in evident pursuit. Per further accounts, he then attacked Ms. Dale, who was killed during the encounter. Local authorities were alerted and arrived shortly thereafter.
I read it again, confused. I turn the page, looking for more, but there is none—that’s it.
“Alice!” Jamie calls in a hissing whisper. “Alice,fuck!”
I turn and see him bounding across the lobby at a sprint.
“I’ve been texting you!” he barks, frantic. “Come on! I’ve got the—”
