Page 53 of Old Money

“ J ust checking in,” says Jamie. “Home yet?”

I’m sitting in standstill traffic on the bridge—the same place I’ve been for an hour.

“No.” I prop my elbow onto my open window, faintly woozy from gasoline fumes. “There’s an accident or something. I’m stuck.”

Half the cars have cut their engines. Arms swing idly out of windows, snippets of chat and podcasts drifting through the heat. The sun hangs low in the sky behind me, rose-gold rays bouncing off the rearview mirror, filling my vision with sunspots.

“Sounds about right,” says Jamie. “You should see the scene here. It’s like the whole village came home from vacation at once—and brought half the eastern seaboard with them.”

Behind him I hear the familiar clutter of voices, and the kitchen door swooshing open and shut as servers bustle past.

“It’s barely cocktail hour, and we’re overrun,” he continues. “Brody kicked all the kids out to eat on the lawn—which was genius, actually. We’ve got so many out-of-town guests, we had to bust out the reception chairs early.”

I turn, gawking at the cars around me. Oh God, is that what I’m stuck in? Their wedding traffic?

“Guess that’s it for the lull,” I grumble, dropping back against the sticky seat. “And they’re all just hanging out, drinking martinis? Is anyone even talking about Alex?”

Jamie makes a nervous, chuckling sound.

“Not now!” he says—an answer, and an order.

“Of course not,” I mutter.

“So, the way it’s looking, I’ll be here all night,” he says. “I’ll have to skip the Martha.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s— Don’t worry about it.”

Guilty relief settles over me. The last twenty-four hours have been exhausting enough. The last thing I want to do is talk through it all, even with Jamie.

“I know we really need to talk. It’s just—”

“Jamie, it’s fine. It’s work.”

There’s a clang and a holler in the kitchen behind him, underscoring my point.

“Shit, that’s the dishwasher again.” Jamie sighs. “I gotta go, but—how did it go?”

I open my mouth to answer, and my breath catches. My eyes spill over with sudden, stinging tears.

“Not great,” I warble. “She gave me a bunch of bullshit and threw me out.”

“Whoa. You think she lied? About the call or—”

“Yes.” I nod, swiping my red, running nose. “She lied, I’m almost sure of it. And I don’t know why.”

This too is a relief: saying it aloud. I don’t know why Barbara is lying.

I don’t understand any of this. Theo’s confession, after all these years.

Gordon’s hostile warnings. Brody standing his spiteful ground.

And Alex, doing what he did. I can’t blame myself for that, but I can’t say I played no role.

Alex spent his whole life holding in secrets, then broke like a dam in front of me.

“God, I really am an egomaniac,” I say through a choking laugh. “Talking about evidence and witnesses—like I know what I’m doing.”

“You know what you’re doing,” Jamie says. But this sounds like bullshit too. Kind-hearted bullshit.

“I’ve just been bothering people, Jamie. I’m not ‘investigating.’ ”

“That’s not—”

“Sure it is,” I cut him off. “You know why? Because I already know what happened.”

Jamie goes quiet. The kitchen chatters and bangs in the background.

“I just don’t know why everyone’s still doing this—protecting him. Letting it go.”

Why am I the only one who can’t? That’s the only answer I need.

“Look, Alice, I— Two seconds, I’m coming!” Jamie returns, his voice short and practical. “I’ve really got to go. But listen, the rehearsal dinner? I still think you should work it.”

“Jamie, even if we get into the archive, and the incident report is actually there? I don’t know if it’ll make a—”

“It will.”

“I haven’t even heard back from the podcast people.”

“You will. It’s still the weekend.”

“What happened to ‘Alice, you don’t have to do this’?”

“You don’t,” he answers firmly. “But do you still want to?”

I look around at the traffic jam—this clamor of people so eager to dance, in black tie, on her grave.

“I need to try. That’s what I came to do.”

“Okay then,” Jamie instantly answers. “Let’s.”