Page 8 of Old Money
He ducks into the ballroom, and I hurry behind him.
“What?” I whisper, my heart thudding though I don’t know why.
Cory stands against the wall, fumbling with his undone tie.
“He’s such a dick about this stuff,” he mutters.
“Who? Jamie?”
Cory shakes his head, annoyed, pointing his chin toward the doorway. A figure walks past, moving briskly—a brief, uniformed blur in my peripheral vision.
“Him,”Cory mouths, his blasé expression turned alert and anxious.
I recognize that look. But—no. He can’t meanhim.
I step sideways, peeking through the open doorway.
“No way.”
He’s at the other end of the gallery now, nearing the back stairs. But even at this distance, and even with his back turned, I recognize Mr. Brody.
“I know,” Cory murmurs. “He’s been here since I was a kid.”
I step back, agog.
“He’s been here sinceIwas a kid.”
“Wow,” says Cory, in a full, astonished voice. “That’s insane.”
On second thought, I think I’ll leave Cory to fiddle with his tie, and go find Jamie’s office myself. I open my mouth to tell him so, but Cory turns to me, his face shifting from incredulous to intrigued.
“Wait, what’s your name again?”
Something’s clicked.
“Alice,” I say, one foot shuffling backward—just an inch, but the sound echoes in the cavernous room.
Breathe.He doesn’t matter. He probably doesn’t even know about Caitlin.
Cory seems to smile slightly. Of course he knows. He’s from here.
“Alice what?”
Stop. Look around. What do you see? What do you hear?
But it’s too late, the room is already throbbing. The walls pulse around me, in time with my galloping heart, and even thoughI know it doesn’t matter if he knows my last name—it doesn’t matter if he knowsexactlywho I am—I need to leave, now, before he asks another question.
“I’ve got a meeting,” I manage, heading for the doorway.
I move as fast as possible, though the air already feels like thick molasses, each step a clumsy effort. I grasp the door frame, pulling myself around it and into the gallery, and as I do I dare one split-second glance back at Cory, and there it is: recognition, spreading wide across his face.
Then I turn the corner, and the world goes black.
Chapter Five
July Fourth, 1999
Ihave bits and pieces from the night of the murder. “Flashbulb memories” is the term my first therapist used, but I never entirely agreed with that description. Home-movie clips would be a closer analogy, but even that’s too tidy. I remember the fruity stench of blood. I remember wet grass slipping through my toes as I ran across the hill. I remember the sounds she made.
