Page 122 of Old Money
And then?
What I have to do then is tell. I’ll start with village PD, because I want my new, amended statement on the record right away. I want it saved and stored forever in the system:I was wrong.That’s the part that feels like swallowed glass—like an emergency. The urge to say it out loud, to someone’s face, is overwhelming. And once I tell the authorities, I’ll tell the media. I’ll keep my meetings with the podcast producers and the reporters. I still have a story for them.I was wrong, I’ll begin.We all were. That’s the story.
That’s how it starts, at least. I don’t know what happens next—when or how they’ll come for Jamie. I don’t think it’s a question of “if” though. Jamie isn’t a Yates. He’s a normie—a janitor’s son. The village will be all too glad to point the finger at someone else—and such an ideal target.There was always something funny about him, they’ll say to each other. They always had a feeling.
In reality, it’s that same snobbery that let Jamie go unnoticed in the first place. No one questions the fidgety kid in the cloakroom, so worthless to them—so accustomed to his worthlessness that he’s working unpaid, drinking free soda in lieu of dinner. Yes, Theo and I were outsiders, and yes, the club members looked down on us, but Jamie they didn’t even see. And neither did I. And probably for the same reason.
The truth is awful, as Brody said. But at least I know what to do with it. First the police. Then the press. Then I don’t know. Then I’ll have to go figure out the rest of my life.
***
A clanging bell rings in the distance, startling me awake. I jolt upright against the door, blinking in the blinding late-afternoon light. The cacophonous bells tumble over each other, and suddenly I recall what they’re for.
I pull myself up by the doorknob and walk on pins and needles to the window. Outside, a line of SUVs and town cars snakes up the drive. The first wave of guests has already arrived—I see a handful strolling the lawn, and others on the terrace. The sounds of bubbly chatter float up as the church bells finally fade. I step quietly back to the door and press my ear against it—no need though. The clubhouse is audibly bustling with footsteps and whispered instructions and the tinkle of champagne flutes. I listen, wondering if this is the moment, and then I hear a cheer go up outside. I feel a dreadful sinking as I peer out the window again—but I have to look.
There they are: Patrick driving his dad’s baby blue Jaguar up the hill, and Susannah leaning out the window, waving with both hands. Her smile is huge and victorious. Even from here, she is as happy as I’ve ever seen her. I still recoil at this strange sight—I can’t help it—but there is a tiny flicker of warmth too. I don’t know that I’ll ever be happy for her, but I do know that she deserves happiness. And maybe (maybe) I can accept that she’s found it. Maybe I don’t have to be the shadow over it.
I can’t think of Patrick in such generous terms. I can’t pretend I want him to be happy. But I do owe him a debt.I was wrong. I owe him that.
I watch the Jaguar crest the drive and pull up to the front entrance, disappearing from my view. More cheers rise up from downstairs, and I realize it’s time. The guests are flooding towardthe lobby, and for the next few minutes, all eyes will be on the couple. This is my best shot at slipping out.
I lift my heavy bag, ensuring the zipper’s tight. Then I open the door, glancing left as I step right. It happens in a flash: a shadow appears on the edge of my vision, and before I can take another step, I slam hard and directly into Jamie Burger.
Chapter Fifty-Five
My vision blurs bright white and I cup my left eye, the pain so huge that I can’t even move.
“Alice, shit—are you okay? Alice?”
I stare at the floor as the world reemerges. Then the panic strikes. My breath turns shallow, and I’m suddenly, acutely conscious of the fact that I’m standing at the dead end of the hallway with my back to the wall. I know I have to run.
“Jesus, Alice, I need to talk to you.”
Jamie’s face is gray, his eyes rimmed red and underscored by deep, bruise-purple rings.
“I...” he begins, then—nothing.
I run. For the second time, I run from him in wholehearted fear for my life.No, I think.The third time.I picture my little-girl hands grasping at the damp ground as I scrambled up the hill and away from the pool.
I reach the other end of the upstairs hallway, careening onto the staff steps, still gripped by the feeling that I am both here now, and out on that hill in 1999. I’ve slipped through a hole in the timeline of my own life, living and reliving—only now I know who I’m really running from. Now everything makes sense: they didn’t believe me, because I was wrong. It wasn’t a cover-up; it was a massive, ridiculous oversight—the kind that can happen in insular, affluent corners of the world.
I reach the main-floor landing, pausing for an instant, peering through the nearest staff door just in front of me. Someone’s left it open and from here, I can see all the way down the gallery—now filled with wedding guests. A dark-haired man stands with his back to me, chatting in a circle near the open staff door. He seems to feel my eyes on him and turns to glance over his shoulder.
“Alice,”comes a voice from above—Jamie’s angry, urgent whisper.
My body jerks into motion again, hurtling down the next flight of stairs, and out onto the subterranean level. I stand frozen at the head of the basement hall, my eyes darting between the north and south exits. If I take the south, I’ll be plainly visible to any guests coming up the drive, as well as the doormen at the front. But if I go the other way, I’ll—
Footsteps thunder down the stairs behind me, coming fast.
Panicked, I dash across the hall, shoving through the nearest door—forget the exits, I just need to hide. I shut the door and hurl myself against it, my ear pressed to the green-painted wood. I listen for Jamie’s footsteps, breathing as quietly as I can.
Behind me, someone scoffs.
My eyes refocus, and I realize where I am: the men’s locker room. I can tell from the clear, crisp sound of the scoff that the room is almost empty—almostthe perfect hiding spot.
“Jesus,” he says. “I should’ve guessed.”
I push myself off the door, my sweaty cheek unpeeling with a soft thwack. Then I turn around.
