Page 34 of Old Money

“That house is my only source of income that isn’t entirely controlled by them.

I don’t have some bottomless trust like Patrick, okay?

I got some money from my parents and I put it all into that house, because I saw the writing on the wall.

The money the Yateses pay me goes into a bank account that’s managed by their finance people.

The house money is separate. It’s not a fortune, but it’s secure. ”

He stops himself, swallowing, taking a deliberate pause.

“It’s the one thing I have that they didn’t give me. But they can damn sure take it away if they want to. I think you know that.”

I look at his white, wild-eyed face, and think of Liv Yates gazing down at me from the back of her horse. I can’t fathom how she got word to him so fast, but like Alex said—I know she could if she wanted to.

“So you sent that text,” I say. “Liv told you to scare me off, and you did.”

“ I wanted to scare you off.” He holds my gaze and nods, once. “Yeah, I sent a text. You’d called my phone—left that creepy fuckin’ message. Then you showed up at my house. Liv Yates didn’t make me do anything. She doesn’t care that much about you, or me.”

I’m not sure he’s right about that.

“So she just happened to be riding by your house. The morning after I called you.”

“Maybe,” Alex says, sitting back, slowly deflating. “For all I know she rides there every day.” He leans back. “I’ll tell you one thing though. That phone call fucking ruined the Italy trip.” He leans back.

He chuckles at this. I sit quiet, unsteadied by yet another sudden shift in his demeanor.

Anger I expected. Paranoia too—perhaps a hint of buried remorse.

But Alex is all those things and more, and none of it is buried.

Every reaction is right there on the surface.

Jeremy’s right. If he were a dog, he would bite.

“What happened?” I ask finally. “When you got my message?”

“That’s the thing, I didn’t,” Alex says.

“I didn’t get to it first. Patrick did. He was up before everyone, doing his fuckin’ sunrise meditation.

And someone’s phone starts ringing—wrecking his precious moment of peace.

So he gets up, starts looking around the boat, and there it is, stuck between two cushions on the back deck.

Must’ve fallen out of my pocket the night before.

He’s all pissed off, coming to bring it to me—and then he notices the number. ”

He gestures to me across the table.

“A local number. I’ve got one too, but it’s not so common, our area code. So he barges in and asks who’s calling me from the village, when it’s midnight there.”

Talk about paranoid .

“And I have no idea, and I’m basically still asleep, so I just play the message—and holy shit!”

Alex cracks up again.

“His face, my God. You hit all the buttons. Mentioning 1999 and Wheaton. And the way you kind of fumbled the names? Something like, ‘Hi Alex, this is, um, uh, Alex?’ Did you do that on purpose?”

“What?” I ask, completely lost. “No, obviously not. Why?”

“Because ‘Alex’ and ‘Alice’ sound pretty much the same on a voicemail.”

I pause, catching up.

“He knew it was me?”

The thought feels like ice water down my back.

“He was flipped out enough to get the call traced. And that was the end of vacation.”

Alex catches his breath.

“They had me on a plane two days later.”

“First class,” I say, not thinking. Quickly, I add, “I bet.”

“Every time.” Alex sniffs. “Know why? Because the flight crew keeps tabs on first-class passengers. They greet you by name. It’s like flying with a nanny.”

He nods, reading my face.

“I know, cry me a river. Anyway. Everyone went home. Patrick and Susannah were supposed to stay a few weeks longer, but I guess he pulled the plug on that too. The trip was supposed to get them away from all the media hype, and—you know, the anniversary. But, no dice.”

I sit, taking it all in. I can feel a thousand questions forming as my brain wraps around this scenario, and what it may or may not mean.

A garbled voice booms out from the terminal behind us and both Alex and I look toward it, startled.

“That’ll be my flight starting check-in,” Alex says. “You’re lucky. If it wasn’t so last-minute, they’d have flown me private.”

He reaches back, rolling a small suitcase around from behind the chair. He unzips the front pocket and pulls out a printed itinerary.

“Did you know this is the airport where JFK Jr. and his wife took off from?” Alex asks idly. “When they crashed, I mean.”

I pause, disarmed by both the comment and the blasé tone.

“Yeah,” I answer in a mumble. “Her sister too.”

Alex nods absently, scanning the itinerary.

“Why did you call me?” I ask, watching him closely. “I mean, why now? After trying to get rid of me.”

“You filed a police request,” he says. “Pretty clear what your end game is here.”

Alex cocks his head, looking at me sideways.

“I’m not saying you’ll pull it off—and I don’t want details. But I’m done.” He pauses, as though reconsidering. “You’re right. I had a choice back then. I guess I wanted to make a different one this time.”

He pops the handle on his suitcase and stands.

“Wait, Alex,” I say, turning in my seat. “I don’t understand, why are they sending you to a rehab?”

“Like I said, I’m good at faking it. So I did. I had a few benders, fucked up the guest house.” He shrugs. “It didn’t take much convincing. I think they’re all relieved to know I’ll be locked up and under guard for the next thirty days. At least.”

I start to ask why he’d want to go, but that seems instantly, abundantly obvious.

“Well, bye,” he says, reaching for a baseball cap in his back pocket and shaking it out. “I hope that helped with—I don’t know, whatever you’re doing. Don’t tell me.”

He puts the cap on and turns swiftly toward the terminal, the suitcase rumbling behind him.

I stand abruptly, banging my chair into the table behind me. I apologize to the cashier as I run past.

“Alex!” I call, my voice echoing off the terminal ceiling.

He turns, perturbed, but only mildly. I slow to a walk.

“Did you leave a note in my brother’s mailbox?”

Alex squints, his mouth a circle.

“Did I— Your brother? You have a brother?”

“Yeah, he went to Wheaton too,” I say, knowing Alex would never have noticed him back then. “Theo Wiley? He’s running for Congress.”

“Okay? Good for him. Look, I have to go.”

“Alex, wait. Can I call you?”

“No,” he says simply. “They take your phone.”

“After, then. When you’re out.”

He doesn’t answer—just looks at me.

“You’ll need more than me,” he says, finally. “You need to talk to other people.”

“Who?” I press, closing the gap between us.

“Anyone,” Alex murmurs. “But I’d start with the parents.”

“ Caitlin ’s parents?” I ask, my volume ratcheting up. “Why?”

“Just—” Alex hedges. “I don’t know. But Patrick went to see them after the case was closed.”

“What?” I whisper. “ Why? At their house? What did he say? Alex you’ve—”

“I don’t know ,” he repeats sharply, holding up his hand again. “He told me the day he went to see them, and then his dad shut him up.”

I feel breathless, my mind whirling like a top.

“Okay.” I nod. “Who else?”

Alex tuts, a flare of aggravation crossing his face.

“Like I said, anyone. Members, club staff, anyone who was there. Jesus, I’m not the only one who lied that night.”

“I know,” I say automatically, still only half hearing him. Patrick went to see Gregory and Barbara?

“And Alice,” Alex says, and I snap back to attention. “New York is a one-party consent state.”

I stare at him, lost. He presses his lips together, looking sideways again. Then he leans over.

“Next time, record.”