Page 114 of Old Money

Or maybe I’ll scream.

“If you’d let me, I’d like to—”

I cut her off with a brisk shake of the head, repulsed by the thought of it—letting herexplain.

“I don’t know what is wrong with you,” I say, barely above a whisper. “But something is very, very wrong.”

I charge out of the café. Outside, the world has woken up. Commuters stride past, heading for the train. Parents steer their children down the sidewalk, the kids all dressed in camp shirts or swim gear, buzzing with summer energy. I skirt around them, storming into the tiny parking lot tucked between the café and the pharmacy next door. I’m head down, aiming for my car, when Susannah’s voice hits me in the back.

“Hey!” she shouts. “Alice!”

I wheel around, ready for a fight—and a fight is what I find.

“Susannah,” I warn as she steps into the parking lot. “I—”

“No, shut up, I’m done listening to you.”

She’s on full-blast now—her most outraged and unguarded self.

“You know why I suggested getting together again? So I could tell you in person.”

She gestures sharply to her midsection.

“So you wouldn’t find out from someone else. I’dbarelyfound out myself and I was already worried about how you’d take it. Meanwhile, you’re all over town, talking to everyone, getting stuff from the cops. You make this big display, dragging thewhole thing up again. I’m thinking,Okay, she’s upset. But we’re adults. We’ve all got baggage.”

“Baggage?!”

My voice breaks on the word, cracking into a shriek. A handful of startled faces turn from the sidewalk, then quickly look away.

“Susannah, listen to yourself,” I implore.“Baggage.”

She holds her hands out, her eyes wide and reeling, searching for my point.

“He killed her!” I bark. “Patrick, your fiancé, killed a girl. A girl you knew, Susannah! A sixteen-year-old! He killed her. Youknowthat, and—”

“I don’t!” she screams—really screams. “I don’t, and I—”

“What? You what?”

“I know what happened to Caitlin.” She forces the words out through gray, trembling lips. “And it was unspeakable. But I—I don’t think Patrick did it.”

Her eyes crack open, and she looks at me through dark, gleaming slits.

“I never did,” she says.

Chapter Forty-Nine

For about ten years after the murder, I didn’t know how to tell the truth. What I mean is that I just told it plainly—no softening the edges or politely hedging. If I thought a dress was ugly, I said, “I think it’s ugly. The ruffle especially.” I knew there were kinder words, but I couldn’t make myself use them. Either I said nothing, or I said the whole unvarnished truth. Of all the oddities and compulsions I developed, that one probably wrecked my social life the most. Try going through adolescence fainting on people and saying you hate their haircuts.

One night, when we were twenty-two, Susannah called me out on it. She’d come home for a visit after graduation, and we were out in the city, buying drinks we couldn’t afford. We were two cocktails in and chatting with the bartender while he mixed our third—a special, off-the-menu concoction he’d invented himself. He handed them over, waiting with a smile as we each took a sip. I nearly gagged.

“This tastes like raw egg,” I said, setting the glass down. “And pennies.”

I’d had to speak over the noise of the bar, so really, it was more like shouting in his face. The bartender’s smile fell like a popped balloon, and he quickly disappeared to the other end of the bar. Susannah burst into peals of laughter.

“Okay, this was the most revolting thing I have ever consumed.”She stuck out her tongue. “But your honesty made me feel bad for the bartender. Can’t we just pretend we’re allergic?’ ”

It wasn’t an overnight fix, but that was the moment I started learning to catch myself.