Page 91 of Old Money
“After he killed her, Ms. Wiley,” he answers, a mild lilt in his voice. “Only just, I imagine. I’d barely laid eyes on him when that awful screaming started from outside—you, screaming likenothing I’d ever heard. Yes, I assume just minutes after he killed her.”
Jamie and I look at each other, both of us caught on the same word. And even in his absent state, Mr. Brody seems to hear it too.
“I assume,” he says wearily, “because I did not see the killing with my own eyes. I saw enough to be certain. And to remain certain, despite what the authorities and family believed. But only you and he, Ms. Wiley, can claim to know.”
Minutes pass in ringing silence. Mr. Brody’s words still fill the air like woodsmoke, settling into our clothes and hair and lungs. Eventually, I feel the ground beneath my feet again, and realize we can leave—we’re done. We did it. I turn to Jamie, nodding toward the door—then pause, my chin aloft, as something catches my eye: that strip of red on Jamie’s neck, thin but vivid, his pulse beating behind it. Something knots up in my chest, hard and knuckly, like a fist.
I turn back to Mr. Brody.
“I’m going to the authorities tomorrow, to begin the process of having my cousin’s death reinvestigated.”
He looks at me bewildered. I’ve never seen him look so human.
“I’d like you to come with me,” I continue. “And tell them what you just told us.”
He draws a long, audible breath. “Ms. Wiley, I’ve entertained these accusations only because of your intimate involvement in the matter. I suppose I should forgive your behavior, given your troubled history. But I believe you’ve been forgiven far too much.”
“Understood.” I turn back to Jamie, signaling toward the door. “Ready?”
“Yep.” His voice matches my casual tone, but his eyes dart back and forth, alarmed.
I open the door, looking back to Mr. Brody over my shoulder.
“If you change your mind, call me before tomorrow morning.”
He rears back, flummoxed by my informality.
“You have a legal right to amend your statement,” I add. “Possibly an obligation, but I’m not sure.”
He stands, imperious again, but still speechless.
“See you tomorrow afternoon then.”
I let the door slam behind us and head for the stairs, nudging Jamie to pick up the pace.
“What just happened?” Jamie asks.
“I gave him a chance.”
“Alice.” Jamie stops at the bottom of the stairs, turning me by the shoulders. “Explain.”
I put my finger to my lips, and glance down the hall. Still empty. No sound of nearby footsteps or showers running in the locker rooms. I turn my back on Jamie, unbuttoning my blouse.
“Uh,” he says.
“Shh.”
I unbutton all the way down to my sternum, smirking to myself as I recall that batshit staff dress code Jamie sent me on my first day—the rules for female staffers twice as batshit, naturally: no dyed hair, no visible kneecaps and absolutely no pockets.
No problem, I think.We’ve got a solve for that.
A phone’s not as easy as stashing a thumb drive, but in a pinch it’s doable.
“No fucking way.” Jamie stares awestruck as I turn around, holding it up to show him.
I check the screen, smiling again.
“Looks like it’s all there.”
