Page 90 of Old Money
“The floodlight,” Jamie answers. “The one by the basement door, above the golf carts.”
“Floodlight?” I say, confused. “But I didn’t see—”
“No, you wouldn’t have. It’s automatic. Turns on at six and off at nine.” Jamie’s head bends toward me, but his eyes don’t move. “It’s for the golfers—games run late, maybe they’ve had a few.”
The tableau before me: Mr. Brody’s spots a suited figure in the floodlight, leaving the basement.
“How far did you see him go?”
Mr. Brody flinches, but says nothing.
“Did you see which way he turned? Did he seem—I don’t know, anything. Anything you remember.” With effort, I soften my voice to a plaintive pitch.“Please.”
Mr. Brody goes pale and hollow eyed.
“The pool.”
“You mean, the pool gate?” says Jamie. “Or—”
“Shh,”I hiss.
Mr. Brody shakes his head—a tiny, shivery no.
“Not the front. The side. Into the trees.”
I see the scene progress as Brody narrates: Patrick walks across the damp grass, aiming for the narrow thicket of evergreens just to the left of the pool—a practical feature, providing shade and buffering the sound of shrieking children.
“They go through there sometimes,” Brody continues. “To drink and all that teenage rot. But he was alone. That awful boy. He never should’ve been there.”
“And then?” I coax. “He cut through the trees and then what? Did he hop the fence? How did—”
“Intothe trees, Ms. Wiley,” he answers, turning his empty eyes on mine. “Not through.”
Another assumption, I scold myself. But Mr. Brody doesn’t. He carries on, his gaze still aimed in my direction, but not at me.
“I saw him step into the trees, and then, one of the waiters—a new boy, too young for high season. He came running for me, panting about some emergency.Running, in clear view of the party, and so I had no choice, you see. I had to step in that very moment.”
I don’t see—not entirely. There’s some part he’s skipping over, some detail he’s left out.
“And then?” I prompt. “You—went to handle the emergency.”
“Hardly,” Mr. Brody mutters. “Party nonsense—such fuss over nothing.”
I wait, unsure which part to press him on.
“When did you next see Patrick?” Jamie asks, each word landing firm and measured.
And exactly right. I know it the second I hear it.Thisis the right question.
Mr. Brody knows it too. Whatever umbrage left in him evaporates, and he answers Jamie without resistance.
“After. During the fireworks. When he came back up the basement stairs, sweating in that wrecked suit. That’s when I was in the gallery. After it happened.”
I sit forward again.
“After what happened, Mr. Brody?” I speak up, reaching for him through the fog.
He pauses—not hesitant, but perplexed.
