Page 129 of Old Money

Jessie shook her head, staring past my shoulder.

“I felt like such a dope,” she added. “How did I not get it until then?”

“God. If you’re a dope, what does that make me?”

“No, Alice, that’s different. I didn’t—”

I waved off her hurried apologies. My brain was already soupy with information, unable to absorb any more.

“Doesn’t matter. You got it. And then... ?”

“Then—well, then I met Jamie,” Jessie sighed. “And you know that part, I’m sure.”

“That part?”

She looked at me, surprised.

“He didn’t tell you?”

I shrugged. I could feel myself growing foggy. Another five minutes and I would need someone to drive me.

“Huh,” said Jessie, then paused, considering. “Well, that’s his story. I’ll let him tell it.”

***

I hear the door swing open and look toward the front of the bar. Jamie turns to the bartender and lifts a hand in greeting, then drops it as he sees me. He makes his way to the booth and folds his hands on the table.

“Hey.”

He’s dressed in khakis and a button-down, rolled up to the elbows.

“Day off?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Had my interview at the station.”

This time around, everyone’s getting questioned, and not justby village police—who’ll soon be under investigation themselves. Every law enforcement body in the state seems to have a stake in the shocking confession of Theo Wiley, congressional hopeful and civil rights champion, who allegedly—and horrifically—killed his teenage cousin. Each day more cars and cameras appear in the station parking lot—I make a point of driving by, even if I don’t have to be there. Theo himself is keeping quiet and, by all accounts, completely cooperative. The media seems to expect a drawn-out legal fight, but Theo won’t mount one—that much I know. I think of the look on his face when he surrendered and said goodbye. I won’t say it was gratitude, but it wasn’t merely resignation either. He was resolved.

I’m all sorts of things. Relieved, of course, and gratified to see so many people not only taking interest but action. And I’m devastated too. And angry, and guilty, and hopeful, and worried. There’s a strange, gloomy calm above it all, knowing the storm has passed. I can take my time picking through the wreckage.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Jamie sits back against the booth, his shoulders softening. “Thanks,” he answers flatly, his eyes on the table between us. “You okay?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “Not really, but—”

“Yeah. Me too. Not really, but...” He glances up briefly. “Guess I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you months ago.”

Or years ago, I think.Or decades.

Jamie shakes his head, reading my silence.

“I didn’t know, back then. I knew there was a rumor,” he begins. “But I never believed it. There were a lot of rumors about that night, especially that first year. God, one week, everyone at school was saying it was a mob hit.”

He exhales sharply—part laugh, part exasperation.

“The one about Theo—yeah, that one stuck around. But it’s not like everyone was talking about it all the time.”