Page 35 of Old Money

I was flailing underwater, desperate for air.

I fell hard into the pool, and my dress whooshed up and wrapped around me in tangled layers.

I heard the muted scrape of my shoes against the bottom.

This was the shallow end, I knew, and yet I couldn’t get a foothold.

I struggled toward the surface, just inches above, but couldn’t reach it—an actual nightmare come true.

I batted at the shimmering fabric around my head, kicking for the floor, and a white-hot panic took hold.

Something caught me by the hair, yanking me sideways. My hands flew up and found it—Caitlin, dragging me by the scalp. Still submerged, I grabbed on clumsily, my nails digging into Caitlin’s wrist and forearm. She pulled and pulled and finally, she got me over to the stairs.

“Alice! Jesus, are you okay?”

I sat, gasping, on the steps, and Caitlin crouched beside me. She put a hand on my shoulder, the other still gripping the railing. The bottom of her dress swayed gently underwater.

“Hey.” She shook my shoulder, touched my cheek. “Say something, honey.”

I whacked her hand away.

“What the hell?!” I shrieked, frightened by my own strangled voice.

I bent over, seized by a burning coughing fit.

“I’m so sorry. It was an accident.” Caitlin looked dazed with shock. “Holy shit, I thought you were drowning!”

“I was!” I shouted. “I almost drowned because of you!”

“Alice, oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m going back up,” I muttered, heading for the gate.

“Wait, wait, let’s find you a towel,” Caitlin called after me. “Then I’ll take you back.”

“I don’t need you to take me! I don’t need your help drying off, Caitlin. I’m not some little kid.”

It was automatic anger—the kind that just spewed out, unplanned and unintentional. But there was something so satisfying about the shock on her face. And this part, I remember, I did intend:

“Go find your boyfriend, you fucking bitch.”

I wheeled around, pushed the pool gate open and stomped across the grass toward the rear path.

I listened for Caitlin’s footsteps behind me, waiting for her to call my name. When she didn’t, I felt proud. Then nervous. Then, with each step, a little more scared. All I could hear was the zip-zip-zip of the sodden dress fabric rubbing against itself.

I reached the path at the bottom of the hill and nearly keeled over on the first step.

My shoes were ruined and coming apart, and I yanked them off.

The slate steps, still warm from the hot day, felt soothing against my feet.

The dress though was heavy as armor—I had to pause and catch my breath as I neared the top of the path.

I heard music and chatter from the clubhouse, picturing Mom and Theo inside, enjoying themselves. I’d go sit in the car, I decided. Let them get worried and come looking for me. Let Caitlin come looking, racked with guilt, maybe even crying by the time—

Caitlin’s scream tore through the night.

I froze—not scared, just confused. It wasn’t quite a scream, but something like it. An animal, I thought, or some ordinary mechanical sound, echoing off the hill. Or maybe—

Another shriek, much longer than the first. The kind that starts out high and then goes higher. The kind I’d never heard in real life. It was Caitlin, and she was terrified.

My body turned before I could stop it, and I saw them: Caitlin and the man. No, I realized, not a man—Patrick. They were inches from the pool, arms entangled, twisting and shuffling.

They’re dancing , I thought. Some funny, made-up dance .

I stood still, observing in a dreamlike state: Caitlin kept trying to pull free, bending forward and throwing her weight back, then angling sideways to knock him off balance.

She was taller and agile, but he had her by the wrists and from the sounds she was making, I could tell she was both hurt and frightened.

I could hear him too, grunting and gasping as he strained to drag her back toward him, and then a furious bark that might’ve been an expletive as he let go of one arm and grabbed her other one in both hands.

He jerked the arm upward and turned, rotating her with him as he forced her upright.

She stumbled toward him with a piercing cry of pain.

Not dancing. Not fighting either. It was an attack.

Patrick was attacking her. I knew it for sure now, seeing his face: his white teeth gritted, his sharp jaw tensed.

His eyes were so open, so unnaturally wide that even from where I stood, I could read intent in them.

It was simple recognition—some ancient instinct in me that knew the look of lethal threat. He was trying to kill her.

With her free hand, Caitlin shoved Patrick in the chest, and he roared into her face with feral rage. Stunned, she faltered, her muscles slackening, and in that instant, Patrick brought his fist down across her face. The crack was so loud, it echoed.

I started running. I ran without thinking, heading for the patch of trees on the steepest part of the hill.

This little grove served as a deterrent, urging people to stay off the treacherous slope and use the path instead.

I’d sprinted through it countless times; Susannah and I used to race against each other, to see who could make it through fastest without falling.

I knew I could make it to the pool quicker that way.

But I also knew that I was already too late.