Page 116 of Old Money

“Right, sure, he needs to show her he’s on them too.”

“I’ll let them finish topping glasses. Five minutes—then I’ll rush him and ask for the keys.”

The last time the club ran out of gin was The Descent of 2016—a disaster Mr. Brody will recall well. It’s the reason they keep so much in reserve. So when Jamie comes running (another red flag), we’re banking on him to panic just enough to hand over his keys without asking questions.

Jamie’s already backing toward the lobby, glancing toward a distant shout from the kitchen—something about the sorbet.

“I’ll text when I’ve got them,” Jamie says. “Stay close.”

He turns and jogs out into the lobby, heading for the gallery. I rush after him.

“You’re positive this is the window? No one’s making moves for the bathroom?”

Jamie pauses on the other side of the grass-green carpet.

“Nah, not during speeches. Susannah’s mom is up next, and she’s already weepy. No one’s walking out during Mother of the Bride.”

I flinch again, thinking of her. The upside to all this chaos is it’s allowed me, occasionally, to stop thinking about Susannah, and her admission in the parking lot. Susannah did not believe—hadneverbelieved—that Patrick killed Caitlin. It was such an implausible statement that I just stood there in a wordless daze. She too seemed stunned by her own words, and we’d both just wobbled there for a moment, eventually drifting apart toward our cars.

It took hours for the shock to wear off. How had she kept her doubts hidden for so long? Why tell me now? Above all, how could she, of all people, possibly believe Patrick was innocent? I couldn’t find a single logical answer, until finally, the obvious one hit.

She didn’t. She doesn’t. She’s full of shit.

There’s no complicated explanation. Susannah just changed sides. She’s just going along with the official story, like rest of the village—like Caitlin’s own parents—because it’s easier, and because she’s with Patrick. Andwhyis she with him? Perhaps I’veoverlooked the obvious there too. He’s a powerful, handsome and profoundly wealthy man. She wouldn’t be the first to look the other way in exchange for all that. And haven’t I been self-deluding too? All this time, looking for a deeper, darker story, instead of facing the sad truth. We were friends; now we’re not. People change. People lie to each other and themselves. It’s that simple. I’m the one complicating things.

“Hey.”

I whip around, startled, and see Cory, holding his green tie.

“I heard you know how to do this?”

I can hear the frantic bustle echoing from down the hall. But Cory, as ever, seems immune to the stress around him.

“You don’t know how to knot a tie?”

“I candoa regular one.” He rolls his eyes. “Just not this stupid, old-school one—four-hander, or whatever. I guess the mom complained about it.”

“Four-in-hand,” I correct. “Did you try YouTube?”

I know he hasn’t. Everyone else at least tried to do it themselves, but Cory’s not a real staffer. In four weeks he’ll be done with doorman duty and go back to being a member kid, as bratty and entitled as ever. The least I can do is give him a hard time.

“Can you do it or not?” he huffs. “I gotta get back on the door.”

I sigh and wave him over, quickly looking at my phone, face up on the bar—nothing from Jamie yet.

“Look up,” I order Cory, taking his tie.

He’d never get it from YouTube anyway. The whole point of this knot is it’s a pain in the ass. It took me a few tries to get it just right, my muscle memory rusty after twenty years.

“How is it out there? Still on speeches?”

“Huh? I guess. Can’t see much from the front door.”

I glance discreetly toward my phone. No vibrations. Nothing on the screen.

“How do you even know how to do this?” Cory asks, sighing at the ceiling, impatient and bored.

“It was a thing at school,” I reply absently. “Patrick’s thing.”