Page 56 of Old Money
A single floodlight illuminates the lobby. At the old reception desk, we both instinctively pause.
“Wait, is the electrocution thing real, too?” I whisper—half kidding.
“It’s not that,” Jamie says, looking at the door. “Shit, Alice, I don’t think this is gonna work.”
He points to the door. It’s easy to miss at first glance. It doesn’thave a doorknob or handle, and the facade is made of marble, allowing it to disappear into the stairs.
“What? I don’t—”
“Closer,” Jamie instructs, pointing harder. “There.”
Now I see it. It’s only visible thanks to the shadowy floodlight. Just as I remembered, there’s no knob on the door. But there is one tiny lock.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s past midnight when I get home, slipping in through the basement door so I don’t wake anyone. I’m still wide-awake and wired on the cocktail of excitement over the archive, and dismay over our failed attempt to access it. It turns out Mr. Brody’s door isn’t theonlyone in the clubhouse that locks. We tried pushing at it, then peered at the discreet keyhole tucked into a tiny notch in the marble. It was old and gummy on the edges, but the center had been rubbed clean, and you could see it had been used. We tried Jamie’s elevator keys, just for the hell of it, but it was obvious we weren’t getting in. Jamie was quiet and pissed off when we left—but I can’t bring myself to be upset about it. Just the fact that the archive exists feels like evidence of something.
I sit on the carpet and open my laptop. I check my email, where there’s nothing but ads for pre–July Fourth sales and a credit card bill. I log out and log into myotheremail account, thrilled to find an email from Jeremy waiting for me.
A—
Chapman is in Briar’s Green, or at least his phone and credit card are, and that’s all I can tell you. Anything else would take boots on the ground, which, for the third time,I’m not doing with these folks. I can’t tell you what those people are doing at his house, but there’s no record of anyone but him living there since he took ownership. Feel free to connect those dots yourself.
As for that text you got, there’s no way for me to trace a number that’s been starred out. I will say I’m familiar with scrambling services, and the ones that do it like that are not cheap. It ensures the number won’t appear as spam, and it gets people’s attention. It’s showy—not the kind of move a Patrick Yates-type typically makes. Either it’s him, and you’ve got him scared, or it’s someone else who wants you to get in your car and go.
I’d consider doing so. In case it’s not clear, Alice? That’s a warning shot. Most people don’t get two.
—J
PS: Background coming soon, sorry for the holdup.
I read it again, trying to parse out how much of this bluster I should take seriously. I haven’t gotten another text, and I haven’t fled town. If anything, I’ve dug in deeper since the morning I drove up Bramble Bush Road. I think of my ill-gotten police records, and my covert meetings at the Martha with Jamie. I’ve driven to work every day in my loud and highly visible old car. If someone did want to fire a shot at me, they’d have no trouble aiming. And I’ll admit, there’s something oddly reassuring about the suggestion that I’ve got Patrick Yates scared. Isn’t that another way of saying I’m on the right track?
***
The feeling’s still there when I wake up in the morning, after a few fitful hours of sleep. It feels as though my brain’s been powered on all night—overheating, fans blasting—and it takes a moment to rememberwhyI feel this edgy mix of glee andparanoia. The day comes back to me in bits and pieces as I dress and climb the stairs.
“Morning, sunshine.” Jules leans out of the kitchen. “Didn’t think we’d see you up this early.”
“Aunt Alice!” Simon shouts from the table. “Are you babysitting tonight? Can we watch the dirty movie?”
“What? Oh—” I turn to Jules. “They keep talking aboutDirty Dancing? That’s a no, right?”
Jules rolls her eyes.
“Thatisa no, Simon. Next year, maybe,” she calls, then turns to me. “Somebody’s older sister told them about it. I think they just heard the worddirty.”
She hands me a frosted Pop-Tart, cold and wrapped in a paper towel.
“Sorry, out of plates. Theo had to head out at the crack of dawn.” She bends to grab detergent from under the sink. “I promise it won’t be this chaotic once we get past the fundraiser.”
“You’re coming, right?” Isaac asks from the table. “It’s at Giordano’s, and you can have all the soda you want for free.”
Jules chuckles behind me as I head into the dining nook.
“Yeah? Does that include Shirley Temples?”
“I think so,” says Isaac, just as Simon says, “Yes!”
