Page 18 of Old Money

T wo weeks later, on a Friday morning, I drive to Alex Chapman’s house. I head out early, the morning blissfully cool after a long night of rain. By the time I reach Bramble Bush Road, where Alex lives, the sun is blazing and the air is as thick as a wet wool blanket.

But two weeks later, nothing. I was still punching in at work (with an honest-to-God time card).

My call hadn’t caused even a minor stir— nothing I’d done so far had.

They hadn’t even placed the notice in the paper about my FOIL request. I’d checked the HV Journal every day before work, but the only items in the public-notice section were road-work announcements and summer library sales.

All that fretting I’d done, imagining my very presence would make waves.

It hadn’t made a ripple in the village—let alone Italy.

The Daily Mail ran two more little items about the Italian getaway, though in terms of photos, they stuck to the famous friends—all of whom I stalked on social media obsessively, searching every selfie and champagne-toast shot for evidence of something amiss. It never appeared. Neither did Alex.

Alex, however, is not. I checked the member rolls myself (one perk of working in Brody’s office). His parents still are, but Alex never joined. It might mean nothing. I have to remember that. On balance, all these tiny details that feel off are nothing compared to the facts I know.

Alex was a classic Wheaton kid—a lacrosse-playing type whom everyone called “Chap” or “Chappy.” Patrick’s inner circle was larger than most, but Alex was near the center of it, and often a party to his misdeeds.

He was in the passenger seat when Patrick got his DUI on Martha’s Vineyard.

He was nearly arrested himself when he and Patrick were busted on the Hudson, playing a game of speedboat chicken that ended with a sloppy crash and a shattered knee for Alex.

And those two incidents were just their greatest hits.

The night of the murder, Alex told the cops that he and Patrick had been in the men’s locker room doing coke—something they were rumored to do a lot of together.

I would’ve believed the story myself, had I not seen what I saw.

Alex was unable to produce the coke in question, and therefore was neither arrested nor charged.

He was, however, admitted off the waitlist at Princeton two months later—where Patrick himself was going to college. Where Patrick’s father had gone too.

I pause beside a moss green fence, checking the map on my phone.

This is it all right, and as I inch forward toward the gate, I see a car in the driveway.

My heart leaps and I pull over, rolling down the windows and idling a few feet away.

The house is a charmingly weathered colonial, on a rambling stretch of land.

I sit for a moment, looking at it and breathing.

I need to be calm when I knock on his door.

I see white shutters. I hear early-morning birds chirping. I—

But I see something else now. Alex Chapman’s front door opens and a child runs out—a little boy in swim trunks and chunky sandals.

A woman leans out the door, calling for him to come back, to get his swim bag.

The boy ignores her, zooming around the yard in a wide circle with his arms out, singing loudly to himself.

He reminds me of Simon. The woman retreats into the house, leaving the door open, and a moment later, a man appears.

“Georgie boy!” he calls, coming out onto the steps. “George, c’mon, get your stuff so we can go.”

He stands watching, hands on hips, until the boy zooms back toward the house. The man starts to turn back too, but then he pauses, shielding his eyes from the sun. He’s looking at me.

“Morning,” he says and waves, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

I stick my arm out the window, waving back. But I can’t make myself speak.

The man waits another moment, then goes back to the house, glancing over his shoulder. He is tall and heavyset, with broad shoulders and very blond hair. And he is not Alex Chapman.

I sit back, waiting for it to click—the obvious explanation that just hasn’t occurred to me.

There’s got to be one. I grab my phone, pulling up Jeremy’s email.

Either I mixed up the address or he got the wrong one.

But, no. This is 84 Bramble Bush, and according to current property records, 84 Bramble Bush belongs to Alexander C.

Chapman. Furthermore, he has no other known residence.

This is his home. So, what are these people doing in it?

“Hello there,” says a cool voice to my right.

“Oh!” I gasp, whipping my head toward the passenger window, yelping even louder. “Oh God!”

At first, I just see the horse, and then the person on it. She’s dressed in jodhpurs and a white, sleeveless blouse. I duck a little, waving out the window.

“Sorry, hello. I was—”

Then I see who I’m talking to. Liv Yates sits serene and sweatless in the saddle. Her hair is tucked into a low bun, and she’s smiling a closed-lip smile.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

I try to nod.

“Are you sure?” She casts a glance at the car, the old engine wheezing.

“Yes,” I eke out.

It’s not just me. This is the effect she has on everyone.

Regal is the word most people use, but that’s too simple.

Liv Yates is mesmerizing, in the truest sense of the word.

When she looks at you, you don’t blink. And though her husband is the prototypical politician right down to the tilted-head wave, Liv Yates is not anyone’s idea of the politician’s wife.

And it’s not because of her striking self-possession or her unapologetic snobbery, or the fact that she rides horseback down the middle of the road at eight in the morning.

It’s that she does it without making a sound.

“Car trouble?” she asks politely, though I’ve already answered, twice.

“No,” I say softly, and something shifts in Liv’s bright eyes. Ah , I realize. Not the answers she wanted.

“Some other trouble then—forgive me. Not my business?”

She dips her head, the curve beneath her cheekbones sharpening as her taut smile deepens. This time, she doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“Oh dear, I certainly hope not.” She gives me a teasing, wide-eyed look. “Can’t say ‘hello’ to you without a lawyer present—I ought to know better!”

Liv drops the face and laughs a tuneful chuckle. It skitters down my back like a bug.

“A joke , dear,” she says. “And barely. Good gracious, your face.”

I have no idea what face I’m making. I can’t even feel my face.

“Ah well,” Liv Yates sighs, resettling herself in the saddle. “You were always a sensitive thing.”

Liv holds me frozen in her gaze for another endless moment. Then her back straightens and she squeezes the horse with her thighs.

“You’re over the property line,” she says as the horse strolls onward. “I’d move that car before someone makes a call.”

I watch until she reaches the downslope on the other end of the road. At last, she descends out of view and my body unfreezes, my shoulders dropping with such force that my head wobbles. I drop back against my seat, still staring down the road in a daze.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I jump, fumbling to catch it. It’s a text from Jamie.

Hey, can you come in early? 8:30?

I check the time and see it’s already 8:08. Even if I—

Actually, do you have a second now?

The second text appears barely a minute later, instantly followed by a bubble beneath it as Jamie types another.

I start typing a reply, but the sound of distant chatter interrupts me, and I look up and out my window toward Alex Chapman’s house.

The family reappears in the doorway, hauling overstuffed beach bags.

The little boy bolts toward the silver SUV in the driveway, opening the back door and shouting for the others to hurry—something about wanting to get a good spot.

My phone vibrates. Jamie’s name appears. I punch the accept button, answering in a quiet growl.

“Jamie, I will call you back.”

“Did you get—”

“Five minutes. Thank you, goodbye.”

I hang up and toss my phone on the passenger seat. The family’s car is turning now, heading down the drive. I get out and walk quickly toward the front gate, watching it open as the car approaches.

“Hi there!” I call casually, smoothing the front of my skirt. Buff khaki, see?!

The car stops. The man and woman stare at me through the windshield, concern and irritation plain on their faces. They exchange a few words I can’t hear, then the woman rolls down her window.

“Can we help you?” she asks, eyeing me.

“Yes, I’m so sorry to bother you,” I say—warm, but appropriately embarrassed. “I was coming to see an old friend—a classmate.”

She blinks at me.

“I grew up here,” I continue, thinking on my feet. “I’m just home for a visit and thought I’d surprise him. Alexander Chapman?”

“Who?” she asks, angling her head. “Say again?”

“Alex Chapman,” I repeat, taking a step closer. “This was his house.”

This is his house, I think. This is where his car is registered. And he checked it out of the midterm parking lot at JFK last Tuesday. Don’t ask me how I know.

The woman shakes her head, brow furrowed.

“I’m afraid I don’t know that name.”

The man mutters beside her and she holds up a hand to quiet him, still looking at me.

“You don’t mean the Cabots, right? They’re across the road, a little further down.”

I shake my head.

“Chapman,” I say one last time, but she’s already turned back to the man. He speaks quietly to her, still gripping the wheel, glancing at me sideways.

“No, I hear you,” she says to him, then looks back at me. “I’m sorry, we can’t help you. And we’re running a bit late.”

She rolls up her window and pulls out onto the road, the gate closing behind her with a soft click.

Probably going to the lake , I think idly, walking slowly back to my car. I imagine them meeting up with friends, spreading out blankets on the shady side, apologizing for being late. This odd woman just showed up in the driveway, asking about some “Chapman” person.

I pause beside the driver’s side door, thinking.

The unknown family in Alex’s house is strange enough.

What’s stranger still is that they’ve never heard of him.

Most people know most people in the village—names, at least. I haven’t lived here in over a decade, and even I know which Cabots the woman meant.

My phone buzzes in the car, though this time it doesn’t startle me.

I’m too preoccupied to startle. I turn slowly, still puzzling, and lean in through the window to pick it up, neglecting to actually look at it.

I lean back against the car, holding it at my side until it buzzes one more time.

I shake myself back to reality, finally checking the screen—it’ll be Jamie again, wondering where the hell I am.

But it’s not Jamie. It’s not anyone. It’s not a phone number at all—just ten asterisks in a row. If it weren’t for the message, I’d assume it was spam or some robo-text. But there’s no doubt a person sent this.

Get back in your car and leave.

I stare at it, not quite registering the words. And then one more appears.

Now .