Page 65 of Old Money
“Why though?” I ask, still puzzling it together. “You mean so you can—what, keep an eye on him?”
“Yeah.” Alex bobs his head. “And so they can keep an eye on me. A little of both.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, well.” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Took me a few years too. But that’s why I got to go to Princeton—my big prize, right? I show up at the dorm and guess who’s my roommate? Then he’s going to California, and they book me a ticket too. At first it’s a gift, and then it’s a favor. ‘Won’t you keep him company? We hate to have him out thereall alone.’ It’s incremental. And by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re a fuckin’ hostage.”
Hostage. That word cuts through the fog.
“What about your house?” I blurt out. “Who are those people? The family living there.”
“Christ,” Alex says, half laughing.“Tenants.”
I picture the woman’s furrowed brow as she called to me from her car—the man beside her, eyeing me through lowered lids.
“They said they didn’t know you. They didn’t recognize your name.”
“Yeah? I don’t know theirs either. My management company handles the details. If they clear the renter, I sign the lease.” He shrugs tightly. “I think the guy works up at IBM? I don’t remember, they’ve been there a while. I know his company’s paying, and they pay on time.”
I take this in, nodding. I can see his patience dwindling further.
“So, it’s a rental property,” I state. “And the renters don’t know your name because—”
“Because who gives a shit? Because I don’t live there, and they don’t personally hand me a check every month. The rent goes to my property managers, who take their 25 percent and transfer the rest to my business account. Ya got me, I’m an absentee landlord. Is that what you came here to talk about?”
Alex shuts his mouth quickly, eyes scanning the room. I keep mine on him.
“Where do you live then?”
He leans forward, eyes wide, a tiny jaw muscle flickering.
“Nowhere. Are you listening? I live wherever he lives—in whatever pool house or cottage or little detached suite they stick me in. I am a permanent guest.”
Alex lifts his eyebrows at me, a soft warning in his voice.
“That house is my only source of income that isn’t entirely controlled by them. I don’t have some bottomless trust likePatrick, okay? I gotsomemoney from my parents and I put it all into that house, because I saw the writing on the wall. The money the Yateses pay me goes into a bank account that’s managed bytheirfinance people. The house money is separate. It’s not a fortune, but it’s secure.”
He stops himself, swallowing, taking a deliberate pause.
“It’s the one thing I have that they didn’t give me. But they can damn sure take it away if they want to. I think you know that.”
I look at his white, wild-eyed face, and think of Liv Yates gazing down at me from the back of her horse. I can’t fathom how she got word to him so fast, but like Alex said—I know she could if she wanted to.
“So you sent that text,” I say. “Liv told you to scare me off, and you did.”
“Iwanted to scare you off.” He holds my gaze and nods, once. “Yeah, I sent a text. You’d called my phone—left that creepy fuckin’ message. Then you showed up at my house. Liv Yates didn’t make me do anything. She doesn’t care that much about you, or me.”
I’m not sure he’s right about that.
“So she just happened to be riding by your house. The morning after I called you.”
“Maybe,” Alex says, sitting back, slowly deflating. “For all I know she rides there every day.” He leans back. “I’ll tell you one thing though. That phone call fuckingruinedthe Italy trip.” He leans back.
He chuckles at this. I sit quiet, unsteadied by yet another sudden shift in his demeanor. Anger I expected. Paranoia too—perhaps a hint of buried remorse. But Alex is all those things and more, and none of it is buried. Every reaction is right there on the surface. Jeremy’s right. If he were a dog, he would bite.
“What happened?” I ask finally. “When you got my message?”
“That’s the thing, I didn’t,” Alex says. “I didn’t get to it first. Patrick did. He was up before everyone, doing his fuckin’ sunrise meditation. And someone’s phone starts ringing—wrecking his precious moment of peace. So he gets up, starts looking around the boat, and there it is, stuck between two cushions on the back deck. Must’ve fallen out of my pocket the night before. He’s all pissed off, coming to bring it to me—and then he notices the number.”
