Page 72 of Old Money
Susannah cracks a small smile.
“All those canceled reservations,” she murmurs woefully. “All those Pilates classes.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, sputtering wine.
“Easy, Alice.” She glances around with a polite smile. “Everyone will think you’re drunk.”
“Right,” I say. “And everyone knows that never ends well.”
Susannah catches it before I do. Her smile slumps. For a moment we’d slid back into our old rhythm, but now we’re back in reality.
“I didn’t—” I stop, correcting myself. “I’m, um, gonna check the bathroom line.”
I didn’t mean it. That’s what I almost said.
“Alice.” Susannah’s face is stony. “I’d like to get lunch again. Or coffee, or something.”
I don’t answer right away, unsure what to make of this frosty invitation. What is this, another message from Patrick? Some other bomb she’d like to drop over salad?
“Another lunch date, really?” I slide off my stool, suddenly exhausted. “Because the last one went so well? Whatever you have to tell me, I can handle it here. We don’t need to ruin another meal.”
“I guess it does seem ridiculous. It surefeelsridiculous every time I do this.”
Do what?I wait, tipping my head toward her, eyebrows raised.
“I’m just trying to make up, Alice. I’m trying to—be friends again, somehow. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t. I’m justtrying. That’s all.”
The band kicks off another bouncy tune—another vaguely familiar melody I can’t quite place, and Susannah takes the cue.
“Forget it, I’ll drop it.” She adjusts her purse strap and flicks her hair back over her shoulder. “I can’t deal with this now anyway. Just—bye.”
“Fine,” I say, stopping her as she turns. “A coffee though.”
Susannah softens the slightest bit.
“And not this week,” I quickly add. “I’m slammed with work.”
I shift on my feet, knowing how phony the excuse sounds—and how futile. Susannah knows what week it is.
“I’m sure you’ll be busy with appointments and dress stuff, and all that. But—”
“Of course,” Susannah says, a strange, sharp pity in her eyes. “I’ll find the time.”
We nod a silent goodbye, and I watch her clip-clop toward the revolving door in her beige kitten heels. The idea of spending the murder anniversary with the murderer’s fiancée is so macabre I could almost laugh again.
And that’s what she is, I remind myself.For now.
***
I really will be busy these next few weeks—just not with my day job. With the wedding moved up, I’ll have to move faster. This morning with Alex had felt like a breakthrough. He’d given me leads; he’d said Patrick was scared—it felt like real progress. Now it just seems like a hazy conversation I had with a scorned ex-friend (and current employee), who’d willingly lied his way into rehab—or else, was lying tome. Either way, I still have nothing tangible. I still need to get my hands on “novel or compelling evidence”—the kind that makes headlines and gets cases reopened. The kind that gets weddings called off.
That part is even more crucial now. Otherwise, the wedding itself is going to make headlines. Somewhere in Manhattan, there’s a team of magazine editors already earmarking space for it in some thick, glossy fall issue. The same magazine that published “A Blue-Blooded Killing in Briar’s Green,” not quite twenty years ago.
I wonder if they reached out to the Yateses’ publicity reps, or if it was the other way around. Patrick’s never given a personal interview, and therefore never had to answer any awkward personal questions. And people want them more than ever. It’d be a coup for the magazine, getting that exclusive. But Patrick would get even more. He’d get a whole new story.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The morning of July Fourth dawns warm and bright and uneventful. Just how I like it—business as usual. The anniversary is always easier when I can maintain a regular workday routine—no easy feat on a national holiday. Each mundane task is a soothing respite amid the laid-back revelry around me. I’m not a fan of unstructured time in general, but on July Fourth, I simply cannot do relaxed. Invite me to your beach day; I will destroy it.
