Page 125 of Old Money

“So yeah, when they questioned me—I mean, it hadn’t evenbeen twenty-four hours. I was still totally out of it,” he mutters. “Totally useless, couldn’t even talk really. Not that it mattered.”

“What does that mean?” I ask carefully.

“What it sounds like,” he snaps, still holding his head by the temples. “What you fucking know already. My dad had the whole thing worked out before they even talked to me.”

He trails off into a mumble, the venom drained from his tone.

“He thought I’d done it too. My dad. Didn’t even ask before he went and made the deal.”

Patrick looks wilted inside his wedding suit. His gaze drifts past me, hazy and soft.

“I walked in there, and—God, all their faces. They thought they were letting me get away with something.”

His phone buzzes, startling us both. He turns away and answers in a lowered voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it’s obvious who he’s talking to. I see his smile in the mirror—a real one.

No, I plead in silence.No, we’re not done. I need this strange détente to hold, just one more minute. My mind is still tangled with questions.What kind of deal exactly? Did you tell them the truth—the cops, your dad? Did anyone believe it?

But Patrick’s standing straight now, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He checks his reflection in the mirror, touching a hand to the buttons on his jacket. Then he clears his throat and turns back to me.

“I’m going back to my wedding now.”

He strides forward, heading for the door behind me. I don’t move.

“Why did you have it here?” I ask. “The wedding. Of all places.”

Patrick answers without hesitation.

“Because it meant something to Susannah. Or to her parents. And—sorry, what the fuck is it to you?”

“Don’tyouthink it’s a little strange? A little—” I gesture around the room, feeling my shoulders rise “—complicated?”

“Nope. I love her. It’s not complicated.” He leans in close. “And I didn’t kill anyone. So why shouldn’t I come back here?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a small, mean hint of a smile.

“You though?” he murmurs. “I honest-to-God don’t know how you could.”

He makes for the door, but I hold my ground.This can’t be it. I need more answers.

“Wait. Patrick.”

He stops with his hand on the door and sighs, his annoyance plain.

“How did you know it was Jamie?” I ask, stepping closer. “You said you were pretty sure, but how? Did you see him walking to—”

“Who’s Jamie?” Patrick frowns.

I stand there, frozen, looking through him. Everything in me goes still.

He waits another moment, then shakes his head and walks out.

Upstairs, the guests cheer, welcoming Patrick back. The roar of their united voices rumbles the ceiling above me.

Not Patrick. Not Jamie either.

I was a freshman once, Patrick said.

I thought he’d just mistaken Jamie for a freshman. He was so tall.