Page 52 of Old Money
“No idea,” I answer, downing my beer. “But I don’t know why she’s doing any of this.”
I unfurl myself from the booth and wriggle out, waving at the faintly smoggy air. There’s a tiny fireplace in the back, as old as the Martha itself—and a health hazard, I suspect. It snaps and spits all night, producing more smoke than flame. But it smells nice.
“I’m getting another.” I lift my glass. “Want one?”
“Sure,” he says, still squinting into space. “ ‘He forgives you.’ God. So weird.”
It’s nice to hear someone else say it. It makes me glad, again, that I agreed to let Jamie help.
At first I said yes because I had to. Once you’ve told someone about your semilegal, amateur crime investigation, you can’t just leave them out of it. And Jamie had insisted. He’d even told me about his ex-girlfriend, a village PD officer, whom he suspectedmightbe able to help. He wasn’t sure how much, but hewouldbe willing to ask. I’d thanked him for the gallant offer—then watched the blood drain from his face as I told him Jessie and I were old pals. And that he had a lot to catch up on.
I’d filled him in on my busy first week, including the FOIL request, the useless redacted files and the unredacted ones Jessie had quietly stolen for me. Then, the bad news: those files were pretty much useless too.
I’d gone home after The Descent and combed through every file on Jessie’s thumb drive. I’d stayed up half the night, reading and rereading, certain I’d find something—if not a smoking gun then smoke at least. But no—not a whiff. All the records demonstrated was how meager (and meddled with) the investigation had been. The interviews were half-assed and perfunctory. The death-scene report was so scant that half the form was just blank lines. “Decedent was unresponsive. Medics confirmed death at scene, suggesting possible drowning.” Even I knew that was ridiculous. Sure, drowning might be a “possible” scenario, but no one arriving on that blood-soaked scene would have “suggested” it first. And as for all that blood, it hardly got a mention. In the section labeled “Evidence Observed/Collected” there wasa single line: “Fluid samples (type pending).” The end. That’s what really shocked me—the literal bloodlessness. I had seen and smelled and felt that blood beneath my shoe. I’d heard the sticky sound it made when I leaped back in horror, realizing what I’d stepped in. For God’s sake, I left bloody footprints. How do you overlook that, even if you’retryingto look the other way?
I’d grown angrier with each read-through—mostly at myself for thinking I’d find something, except proof of what I already knew: the case was bullshit. Individually, the records might’ve looked like appallingly shoddy policework. But on the whole, the investigation just looked fake.
“And there was nothing about the Joyces, right?” Jamie asks when I return from the bar. “The cops didn’t call them?”
I shake my head, gently plonking a fresh beer beside his first one, still sitting two-thirds full.
“It would make sense,” he continues. “They were career staffers. They knew everyone, right? Hal Joyce—he taught all those kids. He was like thecooltennis coach, remember? If anyone—”
“Yes, Jamie, I really do get it.” I speak with all the patience I can muster, which is not a whole lot. “Itwouldmake sense to interview more staffers, in a normal investigation. In a good one, they’d probably call everyone. But this one—”
“Was bullshit.” He nods and cracks a warm smile. “I got it. You wanna sit?”
I scoot into the booth, my hand still tight around my beer.
“Susannah’s parents were both off anyway,” I grouse—but now he’s got me thinking about it. “I obviously asked her about all this a million years ago.”
Over and over again: Was she sure her parents weren’t at the club? Had either of them ever saidanythingabout Patrick? Or Caitlin? Or anyone they knew? I felt bad, grilling her, especially because I already knew the answer.
“They were down the road, waiting for the fireworks. They got a spot by Northern Lights that year, so—”
Jamie nods, his amused smile softening.
“Good spot. Ice cream adjacent.”
I bend my head—we both get it. The club’s fireworks display is the only one sanctioned in Briar’s Green. You can technically see it all the way from the village square, but to get a proper view you need to stand somewhere along the edge of Route 9—and you will be standing, unless you get out early enough to claim one of the good spots. If you nab the patch of grass by the ice cream stand, you spread out your blanket and camp out all day on it. You wave like a champion when your friend drives by in her mom’s car, gawking at you through the window. You drink four strawberry lemonades, then sit in agony for an hour, waiting for the next designated family member to come take their turn, then you run across the parking lot to Squire’s Deli, praying it’s the nice guy behind the counter and he lets you use the bathroom without buying something first. Even if you get stuck with the mean guy, it is absolutely one of the best days of your summer.
Jamie knows all this—no need to explain. He nods again with great sincerity, and the anger firing in me dissipates. It’s not for him.
“Anyway,” I say, breaking the brief silence. “Even if the cops had called them, it wouldn’t have mattered. Those interviews were a joke. Aside from mine, I mean.”
Reading the transcript of my own police interview had been a masochistic exercise that conjured up details I’d gladly forgotten. The cops had prodded me along with ever-more-pointed questions: Was it hard for me to make friends at Wheaton, given my “different” background? Had I felt jealousy toward classmates, and if so, how did I handle it? Was there alcohol in my house—my apartment, rather—and was I often left alone with it, when my single mother was out at one of her three jobs?
I wanted to print out the transcript just to set it on fire. Butthe truth is, it’s the only record with any real value. It proves they were, in fact, capable of interrogating someone.
“Can I take a look at the drive anyway?” Jamie asks (again). “I’m not doubting you. I’m just thinking—fresh eyes.”
I sigh and drop my head back, forgetting how shallow the seat is. My skull whacks painfully against the back of the booth.
“Fine.” I wince, dropping my voice. “I’ll bring it tomorrow. I don’t have it on me.”
This is a lie. But I need to sleep on it. I trust Jamie, but part of me is still hesitant. Until a few months ago, I trusted Susannah too.
“And I’m telling Jessie, obviously,” I add—though it’s only just occurred to me. “She stuck her neck out, getting me that info. I don’t know if she’d appreciate me handing it over to her ex-boyfriend.”
