Page 51 of Old Money

Brownout , I think. Theo. Theo lied.

I still can’t make sense of it—any of it: Theo lying, and to me, and about this . Thinking about it feels like trying to walk on my hands.

I check my phone, quickly skimming my inbox for any response from the Club Kid producers.

Nothing yet—thank God. I’m still determined to move forward with the plan, but I need to get my head on straight first. How does Theo’s revelation fit in here?

Do I tell them? Do I tell the cops? Does it matter to anyone but me?

I switch on the TV, eager for the idle chatter of morning news.

In the bathroom, I peel off my T-shirt and start the shower, letting it warm up (a little, at least), while I brush my teeth.

The TV voices drift in, the words unintelligible over the roaring shower.

All I can catch are snippets of sentences and the vague tonal variations of different segments: bubbly host patter, the coo and giggle of a viral-video story involving an animal, and then the sudden drop in volume as they pivot to thirty seconds of actual news.

That’s when I hear it.

Hovering above the sink, I shut off the faucet and hold still.

I hear it again, clearer this time.

I shut my eyes and breathe for a moment. I smell the flowery bar soap. I see the reddish-black insides of my eyelids. What do I hear? A name, coming from the television. Again.

“...found early this morning on the edge of Lyme Island Preserve, a forested island at the head of the St. Lawrence River, just east of Ontario Bay. The clothes were damp but neatly folded, suggesting they’d been there no more than a few days.

The note was sealed in a plastic bag, inside one of the hiking boots, along with a driver’s license—which, authorities have now confirmed, belonged to Alexander Chapman. ”

I stand in front of the television still holding my toothbrush, a scratchy towel tucked around me.

On the screen, a handful of cops mill about in a small, unpaved clearing on the edge of a dense forest. They’re wearing jackets, which strikes me as odd, standing in my sunbaked room, my thighs already sticking together.

Then I remember how far north they are. And that they’re on the water.

My phone vibrates on the bedside table, and I shuffle over to it, keeping my eyes on the TV.

“Hello?”

“Are you seeing this?” says Jamie.

“I’m watching now.”

A map appears on the television, showing an island the shape of a lopsided diamond. There’s a red circle on the eastern edge, highlighting the spot where Alex’s belongings were found. The anchor continues, speaking in a sober, wrapping-up voice:

“A maritime unit recovered Chapman’s kayak, partially submerged in a nearby cove, before suspending the search due to high waters. They hope to resume within the week.”

The screen cuts back to the newsroom.

“And now an update on this heat ! Pete, what do you say? Are we gonna break a record or what?”

I grab the remote and mute the television, dropping into the floral-print armchair beside me.

“Shit,” I say, mostly to myself. “When did they—”

“A few hours ago,” Jamie answers. “They got a tip.”

“What?”

“No.” Jamie sighs. “Not like that. It sounds like Alex called them himself. Before he did it.”

My phone buzzes against my ear—Jamie’s sent me a link.

“Just read it,” he says softly. “I’ll wait.”

I open my texts and see the small preview of the article, its grim headline cut off halfway through:

Briar’s Green Man Feared...

My stomach sinks. I think of Alex at the airport—his strange, swinging temper. The way he just unspooled his story for me.

“He said something, before he left.” I put the phone back to my ear. “He said he wanted to make a different choice this time.”

“Huh,” says Jamie. “Alice, that could’ve meant anything. You couldn’t have known he was planning this.”

“No. But I knew something was wrong.”

I lean back into the overstuffed chair, shutting my eyes against the bright sunlight.

“You know what’s awful?” I say, eyes closed. “What else is awful, I mean.”

“What’s that?”

“I feel relieved .”

Jamie chuckles quietly on the other end.

“I’m serious. It’s a tragedy, and I’m fucking furious. This family, the way they used him up? God, you should have seen him at the airport. He was this shredded wreck—he could barely function. It scared me, the thought of him out there on his own.”

“Yeah,” Jamie interjects calmly. “And now he’s not. That’s the relief. I get that.”

I drop my head back, staring up at the ceiling, dappled with bursts of light bouncing off the river.

“Seriously?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t walk around telling everyone. Okay, egomaniac?” He pauses—not for a laugh, because it’s not a joke this time. It’s just a gesture. “But yeah, I get it. When you know someone like that, you worry all the time.”

I hear the gentle questioning in his tone. Are we okay? Whatever we are? I don’t answer, because I don’t know.

“How’d it go yesterday?” Jamie asks, carefully breaking the silence. “Did you talk to anyone?”

Another covert question. I told Jamie I was leaving him out of it, and here he is asking: Can I come back in?

“I did,” I answer, cracking the door. “I emailed the podcast people too.”

The sun starts prickling on my bare shoulder, and I stand, shuffling over to the tiny dresser. I tuck the phone against my shoulder and yank the top drawer open, the wood tacky and swollen in the heat.

“Whoa,” he says, either stunned or impressed. “And?”

“Nothing yet, but it’s early. And then—”

I turn to glance at the muted TV, a truly hideous thought arising: How might this news complicate my own plans with the press? And if I tell them that I’m the child witness, will I also have to disclose my meeting with the alibi? Just before he got on a plane and vanished?

“And then?” Jamie prompts, snapping me out of it.

“Yeah,” I sigh, fishing socks and underwear out of the drawer. “And then I talked to Theo.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That’s a whole other story.”

“Alice, what happened?”

I shove the drawer shut and it jams with a squeak, the left side sticking out at an angle.

“Alice?” Jamie says sharply.

“God, I don’t—” I mumble, banging the drawer with the side of my fist. “I don’t even—”

My phone buzzes against my shoulder and slips to the floor, thudding on the thick rug. When I pick it up, I see a text bubble from a number I don’t recognize. But this time, I know exactly who it is.

Jamie’s tiny voice calls my name again.

“Hey,” I say in a rush. “Jamie, I have to go. I’ll tell you later, okay? Tonight—the Martha.”

I hang up on the sound of his exasperated exhale, and quickly read the text again.

Check your email.

It’s Jeremy. Jeremy who doesn’t text—who “bowed out” and asked me, politely, never to contact him again. And he’s using my regular old non-secret email address.

Alice,

I’m not billing for this so don’t worry.

I guess you’ve seen the news about Chapman.

Awful business. I still say it looks more like a disappearance than a suicide.

You wanna disappear someone, you do it in the woods.

And this guy disappeared in the woods on an island, in the middle of an international water border.

It’s a little too perfect, y’know? Kinda like Yates’s record.

It’s been eating at me ever since I sent you that light background file.

I don’t like a light file, especially when I know there’s more out there.

Yates is rotten—you can smell it on him.

So I gave it one last shot, and this time I went old-school.

I pulled his recent phone records to do a manual search for red flags.

I thought I might catch him calling old dealers.

I didn’t—no suspicious numbers. But I did spot a very surprising one. Do you recognize it too?

I peer at the image he’s pasted beneath: a scanned list of outgoing phone calls from last week, with one number circled, halfway down the page.

I do recognize it. I asked Jeremy to get it for me earlier this month.

It’s the landline registered to Barbara D.

Dale. She didn’t answer when I called. But she picked up the phone for Patrick.

What’s more, she stayed on the phone with him for twenty-two minutes.

Jeremy’s clocked this too. I glance at the little note he’s scribbled beside the phone number:

22 mins? Barely takes one to say “sorry.” What do you think he used the rest for?