Page 42 of Old Money
I fumble for the car door and get out, stumbling toward the shoulder.
“Are you—”
“Totally fine,” says Jamie.
I list forward, slamming into him with a hard, clumsy hug.
“Ah, shit.” Jamie pats my shoulder. “Alice, my ribs.”
I jump back. Jamie waves to the officer.
“It’s okay. This is the friend I was with before.”
The officer nods, turning back to her laptop.
“Jamie, I thought—” I’m still half-numb with shock. “What the hell happened?”
“A hit-and-run is what happened. Someone T-boned me with a massive SUV.”
“Why aren’t you at the hospital!”
“I’m really okay—nothing’s broken,” he assures me. “Just really fucking bruised.”
I see it now. He’s not fine. His bottom lip is swollen and bleeding. The top of his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a gash across his throat and collarbone.
“The seat belt,” he says, gesturing to it. “Trust me, it could’ve been worse. I pulled forward a little, just before he hit me.”
“What, you saw the car coming?”
“No, no,” Jamie says. “I barely saw it after—fucker had his headlights off. No, I just saw the light was about to change and took my foot off the brake. Jumped the gun a little, but it probably saved my life. He didn’t hit dead center, just the back of the car.”
My eyes clamp shut as the scene runs through my mind: Jamie’s head whips sideways, the seat belt taut against his throat. A shattering boom as the car makes impact, a sudden hail of glass.
“I must have thrown his aim off,” Jamie continues. “He must not have realized I’d moved. Jerk was going so fast he probably couldn’t tell.”
“What are you saying exactly?”
“He just kept going, Alice,” Jamie answers, the swollen lip blurring his consonants. “He didn’t stop—he floored it. I didn’t see the front of the car, but it must’ve been wrecked. And he just kept going.”
“You’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”
“Not a chance.”
I call over to the officer, now sitting in her open car, talking on a cell phone.
“Have they found the driver yet?”
“We’re working on it,” she says. “Among other things—it’s a holiday, you know.”
“Let’s get you home,” I tell Jamie. “How much longer do they need you?”
“Huh? Oh no, I’m good to go,” he says. “I was just waiting.”
My throat tightens.
“For me?”
A great burst over laughter overtakes him, and Jamie cups his neck and bends, laughing and grimacing at the same time.
“For Uber ,” he says. “God, you really are an egomaniac.”
***
I spend the night—what’s left of it—in Jamie’s living room.
While he dozes on the couch, I open my laptop and click blearily between my open tabs—Twitter, Facebook, the Hudson Valley Journal site—refreshing and scanning for updates.
So far, I’ve seen no mention of a hit-and-run or a black SUV, not even on the local crime blotters.
Shouldn’t there be a public notice? Some sort of appeal for sightings?
Regardless, someone would have spotted it, unless it really did just vanish into the woods.
My phone buzzes, jolting me alert.
Did you see my email?
I blink at the message with scratchy eyes. I don’t recognize the number—it’s a number though, not asterisks. Another message pops up beneath.
Check your email. The other one.
It clicks: Jeremy. He’d told me he used scrambling services like this—the kind that doesn’t “star out” numbers. Then I remember another thing Jeremy told me: email only. No phones. He’d only contact me that way in “life-or-death situations.”
I open a new window on my laptop, logging into my Jeremy-only email account with shaky fingers. The message is there, time stamped just before midnight last night. The subject line is ominous, even for Jeremy:
Did you see?
The email itself is even more chilling. It’s just a link, and beneath it, three words:
This is bad.
I click the link, and then I’m looking at another local news site—not the HV Journal , but one from upstate: the North Country Register . I scan the page for something familiar, and find it in a brief paragraph, halfway down the homepage:
Patient Reported Missing from Black River Facility
Jefferson County police are seeking information on the whereabouts of a man reported missing yesterday, having failed to arrive for a scheduled intake at Fairview Treatment Center, in Black River, NY.
Alexander Chapman, of Briar’s Green, NY, arrived at Watertown International Airport at 10:40 a.m. on July 3, where a Fairview staff member was waiting to escort him to the facility.
Chapman, thirty-four, was seen collecting baggage shortly after deboarding, but his escort was unable to locate him in the arrival area.
Fairview administrators reported Chapman missing twenty-four hours later, having failed to locate or contact him.
When reached for comment, staff did not specify Chapman’s medical or physical condition, but noted that, “As with anyone in need of in-patient care, we are deeply concerned for his safety. We ask that anyone who comes into contact with him to please contact us or county authorities, for the sake of Mr. Chapman’s own well-being. ”
My phone vibrates again, and Jamie stirs. He sits up carefully, a hand against his bruised ribs, blinking around the dim room.
“What’s up?” he says. “Is it morning?”
“Not quite.”
Jamie scrubs at his eyes, registering my expression.
“What, did they find him? Did they find the car?”
I tell him no, then hand him my laptop. I watch his face go still, eyes darting, as he reads the paragraph.
“Coffee?” He stands up slowly and shuffles to the back of the apartment.
I look down at my phone and see Jeremy’s final text—another three-word message:
Be careful. Please.