Page 111 of Old Money
This too is a relief: saying it aloud. I don’t know why Barbara is lying. I don’t understand any of this. Theo’s confession, after all these years. Gordon’s hostile warnings. Brody standing his spiteful ground. And Alex, doing what he did. I can’t blame myself for that, but I can’t say I played no role. Alex spent his whole life holding in secrets, then broke like a dam in front of me.
“God, I really am an egomaniac,” I say through a choking laugh. “Talking about evidence and witnesses—like I know what I’m doing.”
“You know what you’re doing,” Jamie says. But this sounds like bullshit too. Kind-hearted bullshit.
“I’ve just beenbotheringpeople, Jamie. I’m not ‘investigating.’ ”
“That’s not—”
“Sure it is,” I cut him off. “You know why? Because I already know what happened.”
Jamie goes quiet. The kitchen chatters and bangs in the background.
“I just don’t know why everyone’s still doing this—protecting him. Letting it go.”
Why am I the only one who can’t?That’s the only answer I need.
“Look, Alice, I— Two seconds, I’m coming!” Jamie returns, his voice short and practical. “I’ve really got to go. But listen, the rehearsal dinner? I still think you should work it.”
“Jamie, even if we get into the archive,andthe incident report is actually there? I don’t know if it’ll make a—”
“It will.”
“I haven’t even heard back from the podcast people.”
“You will. It’s still the weekend.”
“What happened to ‘Alice, you don’t have to do this’?”
“You don’t,” he answers firmly. “But do you still want to?”
I look around at the traffic jam—this clamor of people so eager to dance, in black tie, on her grave.
“I need to try. That’s what I came to do.”
“Okay then,” Jamie instantly answers. “Let’s.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
It’s still early morning when I get to the café, but Susannah has once again beaten me. She waves from a table in the back, where she sits with a scone and a coffee—the only customer at this hour.
I suggested the Bluebell Café because it was new and unfamiliar, and just south of the village in Berrytown. It was also the only spot open at 8:00 a.m. on a Thursday, which was the only time Susannah could do. She’d seemed pleasantly surprised to get my text. Of course she’d still like to have coffee. But could it be an early one? She was pretty booked up,haha. I’d looked at her message, imagining the reply I might send in another life: “Two days before your wedding?! I thought you’d be wide-open!” Instead, I’d written back saying simply: “That’s fine, I have work at nine. Will find a spot.” In that other life, I’d be running around between hair appointments and final fittings with her. And I wouldn’t need to have this conversation at all.
Tomorrow night is the rehearsal dinner—and very likely, my last at the club. Jamie and I will attempt to break into the archive and get the incident report. I’ll be doing the actual break-in part (alone, I’ve insisted), and I’d estimate there’s a 70- to 80-percent chance I’ll get caught. I’ve decided it’s worth the risk if there’s a chance I’ll find a piece of physical evidence. Either way, my summer job ends this week. Next week I’ll be meeting with two reporters—one from a national newspaper and the otherfrom a New York–based news blog—as well as the producers ofThe Club Kid.
They replied to my email first thing on Monday, and we were on the phone within the hour. The reporters were even faster, and once they’d verified that I was who I claimed to be, it was only a question of when I could meet. I wanted to say immediately.Give me an hour—forty minutes if traffic’s good. I wanted to be in a cold conference room, handing over my documents, playing my recording and dictating my own story into their microphones—every detail, once and for all. I wanted to get it done.
But then I thought of Susannah. I thought of what she said the night of Theo’s fundraiser, when she’d asked me out for one last uncomfortable coffee:I’m just trying, Alice. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t.
I’m not sure I could say the same. The more I see of the new Susannah, the more I’m convinced the old one is gone—dissolved into this straight-haired stranger in cotton-candy pink. But I owe her every chance to prove me wrong. And this is my last one.
I wave back to her from the counter at the front of the café.
“Double espresso, please?”
The kid behind the counter yawns, dragging himself off his stool with obvious annoyance—a young Cory in training. He fiddles with the espresso machine, and I keep one eye on Susannah. She looks every bit the bride, right down to the blush. Her hair is gilded with cinnamon highlights. Her face looks fresh from a serious facial—not just blushing but shiny and still a bit swollen. She checks her manicure over and over, handling the scone like a landmine. In another life, I’d laugh at the way she’s gingerly pulling off chunks.
The kid slings my espresso at me, forgetting to put it on a saucer. I leave him to his phone, carrying the scalding cup to Susannah’s table.
