Page 121 of Old Money
As expected, my phone is gone too. I didn’t have high hopes, but I still feel a sinking ball of fear at its absence. I check behind the bar, along each wall of bookshelves, and under the sofa and reading chairs, and then check them all again, just in case—nothing. The only question now is what Jamie will do with it—the recordings, the texts, the numbers in my call log. Would he risk using it to implicate Patrick? Maybe. But it might be easier to point the finger elsewhere. No matter how you frame it, my phone is pretty damning evidence of whatI’vebeen doing.
One of the voices shouts to another, sounding a bit closer now—in the gallery, I think. I quietly back out of the libraryand into the dark staff hall. I turn and take off at a jog, heading toward the west side of the clubhouse and Jamie’s office.
I pause in the doorway. Jamie’s desk chair sits swiveled to the side, and I picture him leaning back in it, drumming his fingers on the blotter. How many hours did I sit in here with him? Laughing at his jokes, telling him the truth about so many things. And then, oh God, the little crush I’d given in to—the sweet, harmless diversion I’d allowed myself. I’d thought it was fun, the way we never talked about it head-on. I’d liked the way we weren’t dating, and never even used words like that—almost pretending it was forbidden (My boss! My brother’s friend—oh no!). It felt sexy and complicated in a high-school way, and how I’d relished that escape from the hideous, mundane mess I was mired in. Didn’t I deserve a stab at youthful sex and romance when myactualyouth was so devoid of anything so carefree?
The fact that I thought it was simple, and something that I chose—that’s the worst part. That’s the part that makes me bend over the desk and heave. I stand there retching, bringing up nothing, and then finally, one ragged sob. And then I get it together.
I scoot around to the back of the desk and open the bottom drawer. Cool relief runs down my back—it’s there. My bag is there, thank God. I slide the laptop out, just to ensure it’s in one piece and still locked. I unzip the bag’s small inner pocket and find the thumb drive right there where I left it, nestled among tubes of lip balm and keys. The files are there too—it’s all there. I slide the laptop back inside, moving quickly again, and hoist the bag onto my shoulder. I nudge the drawer with my knee, and as it slides shut, I notice something else inside: my phone.
It’s sitting there, right where my bag was. As though someone tucked it underneath for safekeeping. It still unlocks when I thumb in my passcode, and nothing’s been deleted or changed as far as I can tell—the battery’s nearly full. I look down into the drawer again. He justleftit there for me? The back of my neckgoes prickly at the thought, and I hold still over the drawer for a moment, wondering if I’m going to heave again.
“Ms. Wiley.”
I yelp at sound of his voice. Mr. Brody doesn’t even twitch.
“I could have you arrested,” he says, glaring from just outside the doorway.
“I—I don’t think you could, actually,” I answer. “But don’t worry, I’m leaving today.”
The tremble in my voice fades as I reply, the realization dawning on me: I’m no longer the slightest bit scared of him.
Mr. Brody doesn’t move as I pass him, close enough to smell the powdery scent of his aftershave. I stop and turn to face him, emboldened by the knowledge that I’ll never have to again.
“It wasn’t Patrick.”
“Ineversaid that it was, Ms. Wiley—not to you or to anyone else.”
Registering my surprise, he continues. “I told you I saw Patrick Yates before and after the presumed killing, and indeed I did, among others.”
That awful boy.That’s what he said.He never should’ve been there.
“I told you I believed he’d killed the girl, and so I did, for many years. I believedyou.”
Only you can claim to know.
“That wasmygrave mistake, Ms. Wiley. What of yours, eh?”
Mr. Brody takes a lunging step toward me, so sudden that I stumble back against the paneled wall.
“But then—you knew,” I mutter, stunned. “When? Why didn’t—”
“Why didn’tyou, Ms. Wiley?” he demands in a quaking whisper. “My God, all these interrogations—why did you never questionhim? Hmm? All this time, all this spectacle and fuss you’ve made, and he was there at your side. Perhaps you might consider that before demanding answers of me.”
He pulls away, shrugging back into composure before nodding a curt farewell. He hesitates then, tilting his head. His eyes narrow, but when he speaks again, there’s no menace in his voice. Only idle curiosity.
“And now you have the truth—awful though it is. I wonder, what will you do with it?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Isit on the floor of the airing cupboard, my back sticky against the door. Early-afternoon sun creeps across the floor, streaming in through the window, amplifying the smell of mouse droppings and mothballs. But I don’t dare open it, and risk someone noticing. I’ve made it this far. A couple more hours and I’ll be out of here, one way or another.
Mr. Brody left me backed against the wall of the staff hall, his ominous question lingering as he walked away with visible satisfaction. I waited until he rounded the corner, then slowly inched forward. I took two silent, toe-heel steps down the staff hall, heading in the opposite direction.
Front door, I thought—more an instinct than a fully formed idea.Closest exit.
I made it to the lobby entrance before I heard the first familiar voices bouncing down the staff hall. One of them was Cory’s—I recognized his snorting laugh. I froze in the doorway for a prickling, terrified second, my mind blanking out. Then I bolted across the lobby and up the staircase to the second floor. I turned left and darted to the end of the hall, heading for the airing cupboard. I pulled the door open and threw myself inside. At first I could only hear the gasping of my own breath and a tinny ring in my ears. When it subsided, I heard more familiar noises from below—doormen chattingin the lobby, and the distant wheeze of vacuums rumbling down the gallery.
Now the whole clubhouse is rumbling beneath me as the staff dash about, tending to final touches before the wedding guests arrive. The airing cupboard was a good instinct, but not the best idea. I can hide in here indefinitely, but sneaking out is another thing. I’ll have to wait until cocktail hour, when it’s good and crowded. The staff will be busy getting drinks in hands, and the guests will be busy drinking them. I’ll wait until it sounds loud and chaotic, then slip out and head for the boot room, and I’ll be out of here, finally and for good.
