Page 3 of Old Money
“No matter what, Alice, you did the right thing.”
It didn’t make a difference, though. By the morning after Caitlin’s death, even I understood that Patrick wasn’t getting arrested on the basis of my word alone. He hadn’t even been questioned yet. I’d been the one they brought straight to the station, where I stayed up half the night repeating the gruesome details of “my story.” I hadn’t even been allowed to change out of my party dress until some forensics person arrived to snip off a section of the hem. That’s when I noticed the rusty stain on the edge of the fabric, recalling the moment by the pool, when I’d realized I was kneeling beside a puddle of Caitlin’s blood. At the sight of thestain, I’d pitched forward and heaved, and the officers had grabbed me by the elbows, rushing me toward the trash can just in time.
They didn’t bring in Patrick until the following afternoon, after the news broke. It was an explosive story from the start—not even the Yateses could stop that. A teenage girl found horribly dead at a country club was always going to be news. But the teenage girlfriend of Patrick Yates III, notorious rich kid with the starlet ex-girlfriend and the DUI? That was going to blow up. By noon, Caitlin was the princess of Briar’s Green—a brilliant and beautiful golden child, her life cut brutally short by (according to an unidentified child eyewitness) none other than her boyfriend,thePatrick Yates.
When he finally did go in for questioning, at the leisurely hour of 4:00 p.m., there was a small crowd waiting for him. I watched his arrival on local news, my mom and brother seated on either side of me on the couch. Patrick crossed the parking lot, flanked by his parents, Senator Whitney Yates Jr. and Livia Wells Yates. Patrick had his father’s height, but everything else was his mother’s: thick hair, a diamond-shaped face and a faintly olive complexion that made him look fresh from the beach, even in February. And he almost always had a grin on his face—a big sideways smile that dimpled his left cheek. But not that day in the parking lot. His father smiled and raised a hand to the shouting reporters, but Patrick kept his head down. I felt queasy with relief when he stepped inside the police station and the door swung shut behind him—finally.
“What a joke,” my brother said bitterly.
“What?” I asked.
“Well...” Theo scoffed. “Nothing. Let’s just see what happens.”
An hour later, Patrick walked right back through the door, and drove home with his parents. That’s what happened.
***
“I know, I’m sorry, I couldn’t get off the phone,” says Theo. “Campaign stuff.”
He shoves my last bag into the back seat of his car. The trunk is already cluttered with sneakers and soccer cleats and bottles of spray-on sunblock.
“I get it, you’re important now.”
I toss my tote onto the front seat, thrilled by the blast of air conditioning on my arm. Even though my older brother was twenty minutes late to pick me up, I’m happy we’re together now.
“But you’re going to have to take me straight there.”
Theo stands back, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Straight there, really? I thought we’d get lunch.” He bends his head, contrite. “Squires? Tuna on rye—double pickles? My treat.”
“Theo.”
“Alice.”He crosses his arms.
“Don’t start.”
“I am not starting.”
We stand beside the open doors until the car begins to ding-dong, nudging us to close them.
“Got it, no time for lunch,” Theo concedes, then cracks another smile. “A hug though.”
Before I can reluctantly agree, he slams the rear door and wraps me in a bear hug—the kind he started doing when he became a dad. I’m still not used to it—the hugs, the elbowing, the tight shoulder squeezes. It’s not that we don’t love each other; it’s just not how we grew up. In France, people greet each other with two cheek kisses. In Briar’s Green, we nod, once, from a polite distance.
“Are you actually trying to make me miss this interview?”
“Oh, shut up,” Theo says fondly. “I said I’d get you there, and I will. God help me.”
I roll my eyes, but I bite my tongue and let him grumble. If I were him, I’d be grumbly too.
When I first told Theo I’d applied for a job at the club, he thought I was joking. When he realized I wasn’t, he hit the ceiling. That much I’d expected—and even prepared a list of bullet points to argue in favor of my plan. It wound up taking numerouscalls to convince him I was of sound mind, and doing this whether he liked it or not.
Theo gives me a final squeeze.
“I hate this. But I love you, kiddo.”
“I know, and I know.” I pat him briskly on the back. “Now we’ve gotta go.”
