Page 30 of Old Money

I t’s past midnight when I get home, slipping in through the basement door so I don’t wake anyone.

I’m still wide-awake and wired on the cocktail of excitement over the archive, and dismay over our failed attempt to access it.

It turns out Mr. Brody’s door isn’t the only one in the clubhouse that locks.

We tried pushing at it, then peered at the discreet keyhole tucked into a tiny notch in the marble.

It was old and gummy on the edges, but the center had been rubbed clean, and you could see it had been used.

We tried Jamie’s elevator keys, just for the hell of it, but it was obvious we weren’t getting in.

Jamie was quiet and pissed off when we left—but I can’t bring myself to be upset about it.

Just the fact that the archive exists feels like evidence of something.

I sit on the carpet and open my laptop. I check my email, where there’s nothing but ads for pre–July Fourth sales and a credit card bill. I log out and log into my other email account, thrilled to find an email from Jeremy waiting for me.

A—

Chapman is in Briar’s Green, or at least his phone and credit card are, and that’s all I can tell you.

Anything else would take boots on the ground, which, for the third time, I’m not doing with these folks.

I can’t tell you what those people are doing at his house, but there’s no record of anyone but him living there since he took ownership.

Feel free to connect those dots yourself.

As for that text you got, there’s no way for me to trace a number that’s been starred out.

I will say I’m familiar with scrambling services, and the ones that do it like that are not cheap.

It ensures the number won’t appear as spam, and it gets people’s attention.

It’s showy—not the kind of move a Patrick Yates-type typically makes.

Either it’s him, and you’ve got him scared, or it’s someone else who wants you to get in your car and go.

I’d consider doing so. In case it’s not clear, Alice? That’s a warning shot. Most people don’t get two.

—J

PS: Background coming soon, sorry for the holdup.

I read it again, trying to parse out how much of this bluster I should take seriously.

I haven’t gotten another text, and I haven’t fled town.

If anything, I’ve dug in deeper since the morning I drove up Bramble Bush Road.

I think of my ill-gotten police records, and my covert meetings at the Martha with Jamie.

I’ve driven to work every day in my loud and highly visible old car.

If someone did want to fire a shot at me, they’d have no trouble aiming.

And I’ll admit, there’s something oddly reassuring about the suggestion that I’ve got Patrick Yates scared.

Isn’t that another way of saying I’m on the right track?

***

The feeling’s still there when I wake up in the morning, after a few fitful hours of sleep.

It feels as though my brain’s been powered on all night—overheating, fans blasting—and it takes a moment to remember why I feel this edgy mix of glee and paranoia.

The day comes back to me in bits and pieces as I dress and climb the stairs.

“Morning, sunshine.” Jules leans out of the kitchen. “Didn’t think we’d see you up this early.”

“Aunt Alice!” Simon shouts from the table. “Are you babysitting tonight? Can we watch the dirty movie?”

“What? Oh—” I turn to Jules. “They keep talking about Dirty Dancing ? That’s a no, right?”

Jules rolls her eyes.

“That is a no, Simon. Next year, maybe,” she calls, then turns to me. “Somebody’s older sister told them about it. I think they just heard the word dirty .”

She hands me a frosted Pop-Tart, cold and wrapped in a paper towel.

“Sorry, out of plates. Theo had to head out at the crack of dawn.” She bends to grab detergent from under the sink. “I promise it won’t be this chaotic once we get past the fundraiser.”

“You’re coming, right?” Isaac asks from the table. “It’s at Giordano’s, and you can have all the soda you want for free.”

Jules chuckles behind me as I head into the dining nook.

“Yeah? Does that include Shirley Temples?”

“I think so,” says Isaac, just as Simon says, “Yes!”

I sit and take a bite of my Pop-Tart, making a pondering face.

“Okay then. If it’s cool with your dad, I’m in.”

“Of course it is,” says Jules, and I turn to see her curious face.

I guess Theo hasn’t said anything about the newspaper.

Or the conversation that followed—the one where he said if I really cared about him and his family, I’d leave town altogether.

He and I have barely spoken since. Thankfully, we’ve both been out of the house so much that no one’s had a chance to notice that things are a little weird.

Jules punches buttons on the dishwasher and it turns on with a swoosh.

“Tuesday,” she says, watching me. “You’ll be there, right?”

I nod. I guess I have to. Skipping the fundraiser would make things ten times weirder.

Remember , Mom used to say. This is just a chapter.

Not the book . She’d remind us of this whenever we got bogged down in some petty school drama or struggled through a class we loathed.

It might feel all-consuming, but in a matter of weeks—months at most—this chapter would pass, and we’d be onto the next.

It never felt true in the moment, but she was always right.

I tell Jules I’ll clear up the breakfast so she and the boys can head out for early camp drop-off.

I promise Simon we’ll watch an awesome movie, and make a note on my phone, reminding myself to tell Jamie I can’t do the Martha tonight.

Until Simon mentioned it, I’d completely forgotten I was hanging with the boys so Jules and Theo could go out for their anniversary (I’d also completely forgotten their anniversary).

I feel a guilty prickle as I tidy the kitchen and bundle up the trash—filled to the brim with take-out containers.

I hadn’t noticed until now, but I guess things have been more hectic than usual these past couple weeks.

I leave for work, hauling the trash and recycling to the bins at the end of the driveway before I go (another thing I haven’t been helping with).

My car (the one they’ve loaned me indefinitely, for free) is parked on the street just beside the mailbox.

The front is hanging open like a tongue, the inside piled with what looks like a week’s worth of mail.

I reach in and pull it out, cradling the small stack of envelopes and catalogs in the crook of my arm.

I dump the pile on the passenger seat—I’ll bring it in later, I’ve got to get going.

That’s when I see the two pieces on top: one, a wide, decorative envelope, and the other a sheet of white paper—no envelope or postage at all.

I lift the envelope first. It’s thick and ivory colored, hardly any signs of travel on it. Then again, it hasn’t traveled far. It’s addressed to Jules and Theo Wiley. The return address says “Joyce” and lists the address of Susannah’s childhood home, where her parents still live.

It’s a wedding invitation.

I look at it, not feeling a thing.

I see black lettering. I hear cicadas. I smell oil on the pavement.

I drop it on the pile, my brain whirling into overdrive, producing possibilities, desperate to find a reason: a mix-up or an oversight. Maybe Susannah’s parents sent it by mistake. Maybe it’s not a wedding invitation somehow?

I lift the sheet of paper next, my mind still on the invitation.

The paper is folded in half, crisp and unwrinkled as though it’s only just been left in the mailbox.

I unfold it and see there are only three words written on it, printed in blocky capitals.

When I read them, I forget the invitation entirely.

TAKE CARE, ALICE.