Page 53 of Old Money
Jamie smiles into his beer.
“She won’t mind. We’re friends.”
He rubs at his hairline—a reflex I now recognize. Jamie may have grown out of his adolescent self, but he still goes red when caught in an awkward conversational corner. Whenever we’re approaching one, his hand goes to the forehead in a gesture of sudden concern. Part of me wants to tell him—but not tonight.
“What happened there anyway?” I ask, smiling. “Jessie’s great.”
“Jessie’s twenty-seven.”
“And? You’re thirty-one, it’s not exactly May–December.”
“Ayoungtwenty-seven,” Jamie says, meeting my eye again. “You’re right, she’s great. We’re just not in the same place.”
Jamie makes a great show of adjusting in his seat, physically moving on from the topic.
“You thought anymore about calling your aunt?”
“Nope.”
Jamie gives me a parental look.
“I get it,” he says, clearly not getting it. “What they did was—cold.”
Cold. Even for a born-and-raised Briar’s Greenian, that is a dazzling understatement. What my aunt and uncle did was eviscerating—almost as devastating as the murder itself.
We’d all drawn close in the immediate wake of Caitlin’s death, especially Mom and Aunt Barbara. Those first few days, Mom spent every waking minute on the phone, trying to keep her shattered sister afloat—even with me clinging to her like a petrified barnacle. But something shifted when the case was closed, and Patrick was cleared. The phone stopped ringing, and Mom went stone-faced. She wouldn’t say why, but I found out soon enough.
They didn’t believe me either—not anymore. Barbara and Gregory released a brief statement, thanking the police for their efforts and asking the press to kindly withdraw. They’d chosen to side with the village, and go along with the official nonsense story about a tragic accident. Caitlin had been drinking, and she drowned. As for my story, they declined to comment. Perhaps they’d decided I was simply confused, or maybe they thought I lied. I never found out, because they never spoke to me or my family again.
“Not even when Mom got sick,” I tell Jamie. “Theo called Barbara, like, ten times. Nothing. Not even when she died.”
Jamie takes this in, a curdled expression on his face.
“Understood.” He nods once. “I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”
“Don’t, it’s fine.” I wave off the apology like a gnat. “Next.”
Jamie drums the table nervously with his fingers. Then something hits him.
“Hey! What about Gordon Fairchild? The writer guy.”
“Why?”
I feel my nose wrinkle at the very thought of approaching Gordon Fairchild—the best-selling sleazemonger behindA Death on the Hudson.
“What do you mean ‘why?’ He was a member—he wrote the book. Who knows what he knows?”
“I think anyone whoreadthe book knows what he knows,” I fire back. “Or anyone who listened toThe Club Kid. So basically, everyone. Besides, he’s getting so much press right now—with that fancy new edition.”
“I saw that.” Jamie nods. “With the feet on the cover? What is that?”
I hold up my hands.
“It’s gross—it’s more money in his pocket. Anyway, I’m not calling him up and giving him another story to tell in his next profile, or whatever. I think he’s gotten enough content out of this.”
Jamie sips his beer, shrugging.
“Just saying. You wouldn’t even have to use your private-detective guy. You could probably find Fairchild’s info in Brody’s office.”
