Page 29 of Old Money

“ W ait, Jamie.” I chase him across the staff parking lot. “The archive is real ?”

He yanks open the door to the boot room, flicking on light switches.

“The story about the secret room,” I press. “Behind the old reception desk. You’re saying—”

“Yeah. That one’s true.”

I stand, stunned for a moment, picturing the little door discreetly carved into the base of the staircase. Of all the silly rumors, I’d never have picked this one to be true. The “secret room” story was one of those macabre bits of lore that gets darker with every telling.

Legend had it that behind that door was a long, hidden hallway, leading to a secret room called “the archive.” We thought of it as a kind of glamorous crypt where the members kept their secret treasures and held initiation rights and (depending on who you asked and how old you were) had clandestine orgies.

The real thrill was that the entrance was a hiding spot in plain sight.

If you were in the right place at the right time, you might catch someone sneaking in or out of it.

“The sex part is bogus,” Jamie says, raising a hand. “I think .”

We walk down the gallery, the green carpet shadowy in the dim security lights.

“But the secret part is real,” he continues. “I only found out when I got promoted. No one’s allowed in there without written permission from Mr. Brody or the sitting board chairman.”

“Not even you?”

“ Specifically , not even me,” he says. “It’s in my contract. ‘Concierge’s purview shall not extend to private meetings, private records or any some-such stored in the clubhouse archive.’ ”

“And you signed that?!” I’m dizzy and slightly breathless, both from excitement and from jogging to keep up with him.

“Trust me,” Jamie says soberly. “It’s no weirder than the other caveats in my contract. I’m also not allowed to ride any horses at the stable.”

“Damn, so you have to bring your own horse?”

I’m practically giggling with nerves. Jamie nods, acknowledging the joke without laughing.

“You know, Susannah swore she saw the door open once, when we were, like, nine,” I say as we approach the lobby. “When Brody was going in after hours.”

“Bullshit. Like he’d leave it sitting open.”

“No, I mean just for a second, as he was closing it. She said she saw steel walls?”

“Huh.” Jamie nods sideways. “That actually tracks. I always heard it was connected to the old bomb shelter downstairs. That also exists, by the way.”

I gawk at him, speechless.

“I’m not allowed in there either, even if the Russians invade.”

A single floodlight illuminates the lobby. At the old reception desk, we both instinctively pause.

“Wait, is the electrocution thing real, too?” I whisper—half kidding.

“It’s not that,” Jamie says, looking at the door. “Shit, Alice, I don’t think this is gonna work.”

He points to the door. It’s easy to miss at first glance. It doesn’t have a doorknob or handle, and the facade is made of marble, allowing it to disappear into the stairs.

“What? I don’t—”

“Closer,” Jamie instructs, pointing harder. “There.”

Now I see it. It’s only visible thanks to the shadowy floodlight. Just as I remembered, there’s no knob on the door. But there is one tiny lock.