Page 120 of Old Money
That was the whole point. That’s why he’d spent July Fourth in the cloakroom and not at some kid’s party, or at home with his dad.
Jamie watches silently as I eye him up and down, appraising him against his younger self: tall for his age, all knuckles and long strides. From behind, his baggy suit might have looked like a deliberate choice—like the oversize shirts and jackets Patrick favored. His messy hair might’ve looked intentionally grown out. And the face, when I saw it, mottled red and twisted in rage. I’d never seen such an expression before, and yet I knew that face instantly—not because it was famous but because it was familiar.
“Oh, Alice. Please.”
My feet start moving before I realize it. Three quick steps and I’m at the door. Jamie lurches back, allowing me to pass, but then he grasps my forearm and we both freeze.
I look down at his hand around my wrist. I remember how we all froze back then too, when it was Caitlin’s arm in his grip. Then I see Jamie’s other hand clench into a fist, and something in me starts to shriek.
“Alice,” he says again, but I’m already running.
And then I’m past him, in the lobby. And then I’m at the front door. And then I’m through it, brushing past Cory, and then I’m outside in the hot, windy twilight, and the tent is a raucous blur, and the imprint of Jamie’s fingers throbs around my wrist. I stop short at the top of the driveway, looking down at the open gate. And then I run again.
Chapter Fifty-Two
It was Jamie. The thought beats louder in my head with each slap of my shoes against the asphalt. I run down Route 9, past the edge of club property and through the village center, aimless but unable to stop. I pass the bookshop and the ice cream stand and the Wishing Well, its candy-colored stained-glass windows darkened. I run past the last streetlamp and keep going, running into darkness, the memory of Caitlin’s death breaking into pieces and scattering into the night.
It was Jamie. It was a hurt, angry kid, in a body much older than he was. Caitlin had been mean to him. She’d mocked him in the cruel, specific way that only an older teenage girl can do to a younger teenage boy. And then he’d seen her scolded too—drunk and chided by her mother for playing silly, childish games. Had it made him feel powerful and bold to see her punished? Or had he always had violence within him, waiting like an unstruck match?
I run down the dark street until I reach the turnoff at Station Hill Road. I veer right, skittering down the slope, across the street, into the parking lot and up the staircase to the old wooden overpass above the tracks. I thunder across the splintered floorboards, down the steps to the platform and run until I reach the solitary bench in the middle. I put out my arms and crash to a stop, bent over and heaving for breath.
Not Patrick. Jamie.
Of course, Jamie. My God, how had I never seen it? How had I never even wondered? Why else would he have helped me—gone to such lengths, taken such risks? Who would do that but the terrified man who’d once been the angry boy who’d done an unspeakable thing? I’d been hell-bent on proving Patrick’s guilt, once and for all. Of course Jamie would do anything to help me.
The pieces come back together easily. I sit on the bench, struck by the awful, obvious truth. I’m the one who got everything wrong about Caitlin’s death, and Caitlin’s killer. I stare out over the water, the village looming behind me, forever changed by what I’ve done.
Not until the first hints of daylight seep into the dark sky do I know what I have to do next.
I wait for sunrise, shivering in the brackish river breeze. Even now, the thought keeps coming back:
He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. I know him.
But what the hell do I know? Who am I to judge what he, or anyone else, is capable of? Jamie’s just another person I thought I knew. He’s just another person I got very, very wrong.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The taxi lets me out behind the village library—tiny and closed, as usual in the summer—and I walk the rest of the way to the club. I reach the bottom of the service driveway just as a large green truck turns onto it. I step off the road, watching from behind a tangle of honeysuckle, as the truck rumbles up the hill.
That’ll be the floral team. The wedding vendors are all scheduled to arrive before eleven, and finish setup in time for a final cleaning before the reception starts. The club staff gets a late start today—a mandatory morning off to keep out of the way (and mitigate the fug of body heat in the clubhouse). I’m not supposed to be here at all.
***
I made it back to the Alcott before 6:00 a.m.—a short, throbbing walk from the station, my feet swollen from last night’s sprint across the village. I sat in a cool shower until the water ran icy, then swallowed three aspirin and two cups of hotel-room coffee. I dragged my suitcase out from under the bed, and packed—everything but my last clean work skirt and one of the bland white blouses I bought during my first week. (“Is ittruewhite though?” I’d teased Jamie. “I demanded the whitest they had!”) My insides twisted at the memory, the acrid threat of coffee burning back up through my sternum, and I had tobrace my hands against the bed and breathe it back down. Then I stood up, got dressed and forced my throbbing feet into my linen oxfords, one last time.
Now the stiff backs dig into my heels as I near the top of the service driveway, approaching the clubhouse from behind. When the southeast corner appears in my view, I step off the path and wade into the trees, walking the rest of the way through the woods. The morning is loud with late-summer sounds: gossiping birds, chipmunks and squirrels rustling through bushes, and cicada song pulsing behind it—a manic rhythm that thrums around the clock this time of year. You just have to get used to it.
But only for one more day, I tell myself, picking my way across the mossy ground. This time tomorrow, I’ll be back in the city, safe and where I belong. I considered just staying right there at the station until the first southbound train arrived. I’d leave my stuff at the Alcott and deal with it later, or never—who neededstuff?
I did, of course. My stuff wasn’t just stuff—it was notes and recordings and stolen police records. And it wasn’t just at the Alcott. I had a few transcript copies there, and some others at Jamie’s apartment (what was I thinkingprintingthings?). But everything important is still inside the clubhouse, including the phone I left behind when I fled the library. And the most important things—my laptop, my files, Jessie’s original thumb drive—are sitting in my bag, in the bottom left drawer of Jamie Burger’s desk.
The trees thin out as I reach the edge of the thicket, giving me a clear view of the staff parking lot and the rear of the clubhouse. I wait in a crouch a few feet back, listening for voices and scanning the scene for movement. The florist’s truck is parked at the loading dock, but the back is closed and the engine’s cut. They’ll be inside, rushing to set up before the next team arrives. The only other car in the lot is mine—my borrowed oldVolkswagen, sitting smack in the middle, red and conspicuous as a nosebleed. What if I don’t get in and out before the club staffers start trickling in? How long before Jamie knows I’m here, and how long until he finds me, and what happens then? For the second time since sunrise, I think about just getting in the car and going. Forget my evidence; I’ll just bail. I’ll leave an anonymous tip on some anonymous tip line, then go buy a new laptop and find a new job and let the cops handle Jamie however they want.
I allow myself the fantasy for ten whole seconds, then I leap out of the woods and bolt across the parking lot. I race into the boot room and head down the staff hall. I don’t slow down until I reach the staff entrance to the library.
I peer in, relieved to see the fire isn’t lit yet—a sure sign that the coast is clear. I pause at the sound of distant voices echoing from one of the ballrooms, and the brief buzz of a hand drill. Whatever they’re doing, they sound busy. Still, I have to be quick.
I scan the library, seeing it’s already been cleaned and freshened, the wood surfaces gleaming and pleasantly reeking of polish. Someone’s tidied up the bar and cleared away the tissue boxes and hair spray I laid out last night.
