Page 60 of Old Money
***
After reading the note, I ran back into the house and packed my things. I called Jamie and said I’d be late, and he’d understand when I got there. I called Jules and said something had comeup and I was really sorry but I couldn’t babysit tonight. I told her it was a work emergency, and I’d be staying in the village tonight, possibly longer. Jules was more alarmed by my urgency, brushing my apologies aside and asking if everything was all right—could she help? I felt monstrous. I told her no, and not to worry—I would explain later. I tucked the note into my tote bag and left the rest of the mail on the kitchen island, the wedding invite included.
I drove across the village and checked in at the Alcott Inn, a chintzy bed-and-breakfast near the train station. It’s overpriced, designed for weekend tourists who want to stay somewhere “authentic”—which is to say it has no air-conditioning. But it’s the only place that had a room available immediately.
***
“If you don’t think this is Patrick, who do you think it is?” Jamie asks.
“I don’t know. I’m thinking Alex Chapman, but I don’t know.”
“Chapman? Why would—”
“I don’t know.”
“Right.” Jamie looks up, appraising me. “Look, you got out of the house. That’s what matters. Let’s just get through the day and think. Deal?”
Weary, I nod.
“We can compare notes later,” says Jamie. He sits forward. “By the way, I’ve got another idea about getting into the archive. I’ll explain at the Martha.”
I shake my head.
“Let’s take a night off from the Martha.”
Jamie looks deflated.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I don’t have room in my head for another idea.”
This is true, but it’s not the real reason. The real reason is I’m scared. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. I don’t know who left that note in the mailbox, but they’ve won this round.
I spend the afternoon in Mr. Brody’s office, trying and failing to lose myself in the mindless admin work. I feel his icy glare on me the whole time, and the feeling stays with me even when I leave the room. In the gallery, in the powder room, in the staff lot after work—I can’t shake the itchy sense of being watched.
I drive straight back to the Alcott Inn, desperate for my little room with its lockable door.
But there’s someone waiting for me there too.
“Alice, my God,” says a voice as I turn onto the landing.
I stop in my tracks, gasping aloud.
“Oh!” she says. “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
It’s Jules. It’s just Jules.
“You’re wound up tighter than he is.” She pulls me into a bracing hug. “The two of you, I swear. Your lives would be so much easier if you just learned to say ‘something’s wrong.’ ”
“Something’s wrong,” I say into her shoulder, numb and flat-out exhausted. “Come in.”
The Alcott’s rooms are color-themed—like the ballrooms at the club, but the effect is far less subtle here. My room is wallpapered in a crimson floral print, the floor is layered with faded burgundy rugs and the four-poster bed sits at the bleeding center of it all, topped with a scarlet canopy.
“I don’t even want to ask what they’re charging for this room,” says Jules, looking around.
She’s dressed in bike shorts and a boxy blue T-shirt that might be one of Theo’s. My first thought is she must have pretended to go to the gym to come see me. But then I see her ruddy cheeks and the water bottle in her bag and remember that Jules is a grown woman who doesn’t sneak around and lie to everyone. That’s my thing.
“How’d you know I was here anyway?”
