Page 28 of Old Money

They didn’t believe me either—not anymore.

Barbara and Gregory released a brief statement, thanking the police for their efforts and asking the press to kindly withdraw.

They’d chosen to side with the village, and go along with the official nonsense story about a tragic accident.

Caitlin had been drinking, and she drowned.

As for my story, they declined to comment.

Perhaps they’d decided I was simply confused, or maybe they thought I lied.

I never found out, because they never spoke to me or my family again.

“Not even when Mom got sick,” I tell Jamie. “Theo called Barbara, like, ten times. Nothing. Not even when she died.”

Jamie takes this in, a curdled expression on his face.

“Understood.” He nods once. “I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”

“Don’t, it’s fine.” I wave off the apology like a gnat. “Next.”

Jamie drums the table nervously with his fingers. Then something hits him.

“Hey! What about Gordon Fairchild? The writer guy.”

“Why?”

I feel my nose wrinkle at the very thought of approaching Gordon Fairchild—the best-selling sleazemonger behind A Death on the Hudson .

“What do you mean ‘why?’ He was a member—he wrote the book. Who knows what he knows?”

“I think anyone who read the book knows what he knows,” I fire back. “Or anyone who listened to The Club Kid . So basically, everyone. Besides, he’s getting so much press right now—with that fancy new edition.”

“I saw that.” Jamie nods. “With the feet on the cover? What is that?”

I hold up my hands.

“It’s gross—it’s more money in his pocket. Anyway, I’m not calling him up and giving him another story to tell in his next profile, or whatever. I think he’s gotten enough content out of this.”

Jamie sips his beer, shrugging.

“Just saying. You wouldn’t even have to use your private-detective guy. You could probably find Fairchild’s info in Brody’s office.”

I nod, looking down at the table, pretending to consider this. The fire crackles in the background, even louder in my sudden quiet.

“What?” Jamie asks. He waits. He puts his beer down and tries again. “Alice, what?”

I picture the drawer full of diaries. All except for 1999.

“Okay,” I say softly. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Something I found in Brody’s office.”

Jamie leans closer.

“I didn’t tell you because—I mean, Jamie, I know you want to help. But this is your job. I don’t want to—”

He stops me with a wave.

“ Psssh. Are you kidding? You’ve spent, like, three hundred hours in Mr. Brody’s office. I figured you weren’t scanning wine lists the whole time.” Jamie leans, eyes wide again. “So did you find it?”

I hesitate another moment, then cave. He’s right; it’s been three hundred hours. I can’t waste all summer down there.

“No.” I sigh. “I found the drawer, but 1999 is missing.”

“Huh?” Jamie’s face turns perplexed. “What do you mean? All the ’99 reports?”

“Reports,” I repeat slowly. “You mean his diaries. That’s what’s in the drawer.”

“Oh God. Brody’s little daybooks? No, he keeps a record of the day’s events, because he thinks it’s part of the job.”

“Stop, what? How do you know all this?”

“Because he told me! He thinks it’s part of my job too.

He gave me a whole song and dance about it when I got promoted.

All the bullshit about keeping a daily record for posterity—but, of course, nothing indiscreet.

” Jamie mimes a Brody-esque frown. “ ‘If it shouldn’t be spoken of, best not write it down.’ ”

I sit, trying to parse through this Brodyism.

“It means you leave the bad stuff out,” Jamie translates. “You save that for the incident report. I’m guessing you haven’t found that yet.”

I’ve never even heard of it.

“What’s an incident report?”

“Seriously?” Jamie asks, looking genuinely incredulous. “It’s—yeah, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Brody writes up every member infraction for the board’s review.”

“All of them?” I sit back. “Every incident?”

“Every incident he knows about—so, yeah, probably most. If it’s bad enough, the member has to sit before the board.”

“All because of what he says happened.”

Jamie shrugs again.

“The great and powerful Brody. Anyway, something involving a dead body? I’d say that got written up real quick.”

A wild surge of hope floods through me—then passes in an instant.

“And probably got thrown in the fire, on the orders of the great and powerful Whit Yates.”

Jamie bobs his head, weighing this.

“Could be. But Brody’s more of a keeper than a tosser.”

You don’t say.

“I’d have guessed the desk too.” He points his beer glass at me. “But you know that shelf behind—”

Jamie goes still, his mouth frozen midword.

“Oh shit,” he says, a smile coming over him. “No, dude, I know where it is.” He looks at my glass. “Don’t finish that.” He puts down his own half-drunk beer and digs for his wallet. “We’re going back to the club.”

I check my watch. It’s almost 11:00 p.m.

“I know,” Jamie says, reading my thoughts. “We’ve got to try now, when the clubhouse is empty.”

“Try what?” I said firmly, not moving. “Where are we going, I need a noun.”

Jamie looks up, beaming.

“The secret room,” he says. “The archive.”