Page 48 of Old Money

I hesitate briefly, then shut the door behind me and head down the hall and into Gordon’s large, cool kitchen.

The house is airy and serene and I’m annoyed at myself for noticing its loveliness.

The dog settles in the wide opening between the kitchen and the living room, and behind him I catch a glimpse of a glass-paned wall that looks out over the treetops all the way to the river.

“It’s fine,” I say as Gordon fills a glass with water from the tap. “We can just talk. I don’t need anything.”

He slides the glass at me like a crotchety bartender.

“It’s a hundred and ten in the shade out there. And I don’t have air-conditioning.”

I give in and take the glass, drinking it down in two gulps.

“Thank you,” I offer. “May we begin now?”

He nods, his face unchanging. “You’re working at the club this summer, yes?”

I look back, mirroring his own flat expression.

“Am I supposed to ask how you know that?”

“I only ask because it surprised me. I can’t imagine why you’d go back there, this year especially.”

I lift my eyebrows, waiting for him to say more—to say it explicitly.

“And with your brother being who he is now,” Gordon continues, “I’m sure he’s not thrilled either.”

“That’s right,” I say, ignoring his little indirect jab. “You must remember us from when we lived over on High Top. I’m sure it’s strange to see us all grown-up.”

“Him, I see all over town—or his name anyhow, on all those yard signs. But you don’t live here anymore. So yes, it is a bit strange seeing you in my kitchen. Why are you here, Alice?”

For your clout , I think, though at the moment, I’d rather die than say so.

I’d expected him to be—at the very least—mortified in my presence. I’d expected some sort of stilted, shame-faced apology when faced with an actual relative of the person whose death he’d so brazenly exploited. But Gordon just seems annoyed at me for taking up his morning.

“Patrick’s getting married at the club this summer.”

“That much everyone knows.”

“ Vanity Fair will be there. They’re doing a story on the wedding.”

Gordon nods, waiting for more.

“What?” I stumble, irked and confused. “You knew that too?”

“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Whit Yates—he’s a doer. And he knows good press is worth more than a legal win. All that new media coverage about the murder,” he continues. “The new book edition, that—that internet radio show, you know, The Club .”

“The Club Kid,” I correct him.

“Asinine,” Gordon mutters. “Yes, all that. Like I said, the Yateses don’t run around suing, even when they have a case. They’re savvier than that. And surely, you see that something like—”

“Like having his wedding covered by the same magazine that blew up the murder story,” I finish dryly. “Yes, I get it. That’s why I’m here. I want to get it killed.”

Gordon lifts one eyebrow.

“And?”

“And—” I shake my head. Is he serious? “And I have information that’s compelling enough to do so. I’d like you to deliver it with me.”

I’ll let him think this is just about the wedding story. I’m not sure he needs to know everything I plan to do.

Gordon looks back with a softly knitted brow, lips parted. Finally, slowly, he shakes his head.

“No, dear.”

“Excuse me?” I lunge toward the counter. “Jesus, all that money you made with that bullshit book about her, and now you won’t lift a finger?”

Gordon’s dog startles awake. He lifts his head and gives an anxious little whine.

“Duncan.” Gordon signals him to lie back down, but the dog ignores the gesture, rising up and trotting to Gordon’s side.

“Let’s sit.”

Gordon nods toward the living room. I wait—I don’t need to do what he says. But I do need his clout. Silently, I follow.

He gestures to a set of lounge chairs beside the glass wall, settling into his with a heavy sigh.

“I’m guessing you haven’t read my bullshit book?

” he begins, eyes slightly downcast. “Of course not, apologies. Well, as you know, I was a member back then. So I knew the Yateses. Only slightly—just enough to say, ‘I knew them.’ We knew the Dales a bit better. My wife, Vivian—my late wife—she played doubles with your aunt for a time. Vivian was the aristocrat. She was the reason we were invited to join the club, but truth is, she wasn’t much interested.

I was the one who insisted. I was ambitious. ”

Gordon rubs absently at a cramp in his left thigh.

“Ambitious, and half in the bag most of the time,” he adds. “I wanted to be a writer. Then your cousin died, and the stories were coming out. I saw a chance and grabbed it.”

“And?” I prompt, and his eyes flash hard at me.

“I understand your anger, Alice, but just give me a goddamn minute, all right?”

His voice is calm but brittle, and I rock back slightly in my chair.

“ And ,” Gordon continues, “I got it. I got the book deal. Then Whit Yates found out about it—I don’t know how, but I’d only just signed the contract when he showed up and gave me what for.”

“You mean—here? He came here himself?”

Gordon takes a deep breath, his eyes wide with memory.

“Hard to imagine it, I know.” He nods. “He was a sitting senator back then, recall. The idea of him making open threats—unheard of. He never had to. Everyone deferred to him regardless.”

Gordon looks up with a bitter half smile, touching his chest.

“Understand, it wasn’t valor on my part, crossing him. It was plain ego. That, and—well, I didn’t grow up here. You hear about men like that ruining lives, crushing people like flies, but you see, I didn’t realize the mighty myth was real . Not until it came banging on my door.”

Just the thought of it makes my mouth go dry.

“What did he say to you?” I ask quietly.

“He said enough—enough to make a believer out of me. I was scared shitless, but angry too. This was my big shot, but Yates had me by the throat. I was hellbent on writing the book, but I just couldn’t put pen to paper.”

He turns up his palms, and I wait for him to fill in the rest. He doesn’t.

“But you did,” I add. “Eventually.”

Gordon shakes his head.

“I didn’t. Each time I tried, I choked. I did that for a whole damn year before I went crawling to the publisher. They put me in a room with a ghost—a real writer. And I sat there and ran my mouth while he wrote the book.” He sits back and points at me. “And you’re right. It is bullshit.”

I search his inert face.

“I don’t understand.”

Gordon holds my gaze and shakes his head.

“There’s nothing new in that book—not about the murder. Those details I got from the news, same as everyone. I didn’t add any revelations because I didn’t have any. I didn’t talk to anyone—not that anyone would’ve talk to me by then, but I didn’t even try. And I didn’t see what happened, Alice.”

He leans forward, a hand on his chest again.

“I promise you that. Others did, I’m sure, but Viv and I left the party early that year. I’d started too early and by the end of dinner— Well, she wanted to get me home before I could embarrass her.”

“Wait, wasn’t that the whole point? That you were there?”

He sighs.

“It’s like me saying, ‘I knew the Yateses.’ Only technically true.

But yes, that’s what got me the job. I was a member, and I was there.

And I had plenty of that insider shit—club gossip and color.

That’s what they really wanted from me.” He pauses for a short grunt of a chuckle.

“I didn’t get it until later, when I saw that line they stuck on the cover: ‘The real story from the man who was there.’ ”

I look at him, my lips parted and dry. I understand what he’s told me, but not why.

Gordon stands, agitated again.

“There you have it,” he says. “I’ll show you out.”

He heads back into the kitchen, Duncan trotting behind. I stand, slowly, still confused. Now he’s throwing me out?

Gordon stands waiting at the sink, his hands splayed on either side.

“Okay, but—it worked. You’re the authority on the murder. I mean, as far as the public’s concerned.”

Gordon nods, not looking at me.

“So why won’t you help me? You don’t even have to do anything. You just have to show up.”

I’m giving you another shot. Why don’t you get off your ass and take it?

“I’m sorry, Alice.”

“This time you will have evidence. I have evidence, and I can share it with—”

“I said no , goddamn it.”

“Why?” I demand, my voice jittery.

Gordon’s face hardens.

“For one thing, my authority, as you call it, is one fact-check away from falling apart. I didn’t actually write a book; I just aired some dirty laundry. I sat on a couch and called Whit Yates a pig, and said I was there when I wasn’t.”

This time, it sinks in: he really is all bullshit, and the Yateses—the whole village, probably—know it.

“They didn’t sue over my book because it wasn’t worth it. It didn’t include anything about Patrick that hadn’t already been said.”

Nothing novel or compelling , I think. Nothing credible.

“But if I go out there and start making new accusations? Reveal this new information you claim to have. What happens if your evidence comes out of my mouth?”

“Then Whit Yates shuts it down. I know, but—”

“Shuts it down by lunchtime. Legally. Easily. He’d call me a fraud, and he’d be right. I’m not going out there and giving them more ammo.”

Duncan whines at his side again—the sound of a strained violin.

“You’re scared,” I say simply.

“All the time. Every day of my life.”

I think of those conspiracy-minded Fairchild fans, imagining him living in hiding. Turns out they’re right, just for the wrong reasons. I think of the shiny new gate out front—the one with no number or mailbox. I wonder if he used to have one. I wonder if he ever found a note in it.

“Gordon,” I begin, stepping toward him. “It’s not just the magazine piece. I’m here—”

“Enough!” He raps his knuckles on the counter.

Duncan yelps, and I jump back.

“I’m sorry, Alice, but I’d like you to leave now. And don’t come here again.”

I take another step back and bump into the kitchen island.

“Fine,” I mumble, alarmed and frustrated and out of other options. Duncan watches as I head haltingly back into the hall.

At the front door, I glance back one last time, still half-expecting to Gordon to stop me. On second thought, to hell with it. But all is still and silent enough that I can hear the morning birdsong outside. I reach for the doorknob and twist.

“You do have things to lose, Alice,” Gordon calls, spinning me around. He stands at the end of the hall, his face no longer angry—merely cold. “Consider it, before you do anything you can’t take back. You have a life. You have family—not much, I know.”

He cups a hand on Duncan’s head.

“Take it from someone who doesn’t have any. Not much family is better than none.”