Page 54 of Old Money

I t’s still early morning when I get to the café, but Susannah has once again beaten me. She waves from a table in the back, where she sits with a scone and a coffee—the only customer at this hour.

They replied to my email first thing on Monday, and we were on the phone within the hour.

The reporters were even faster, and once they’d verified that I was who I claimed to be, it was only a question of when I could meet.

I wanted to say immediately. Give me an hour—forty minutes if traffic’s good .

I wanted to be in a cold conference room, handing over my documents, playing my recording and dictating my own story into their microphones—every detail, once and for all. I wanted to get it done.

But then I thought of Susannah. I thought of what she said the night of Theo’s fundraiser, when she’d asked me out for one last uncomfortable coffee: I’m just trying, Alice. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t .

I’m not sure I could say the same. The more I see of the new Susannah, the more I’m convinced the old one is gone—dissolved into this straight-haired stranger in cotton-candy pink. But I owe her every chance to prove me wrong. And this is my last one.

I wave back to her from the counter at the front of the café.

“Double espresso, please?”

The kid behind the counter yawns, dragging himself off his stool with obvious annoyance—a young Cory in training.

He fiddles with the espresso machine, and I keep one eye on Susannah.

She looks every bit the bride, right down to the blush.

Her hair is gilded with cinnamon highlights.

Her face looks fresh from a serious facial—not just blushing but shiny and still a bit swollen.

She checks her manicure over and over, handling the scone like a landmine.

In another life, I’d laugh at the way she’s gingerly pulling off chunks.

The kid slings my espresso at me, forgetting to put it on a saucer. I leave him to his phone, carrying the scalding cup to Susannah’s table.

“Nice place,” I say, sitting down.

“I know,” she coos. “Isn’t it just darling?”

She beams at the wall, admiring the decor—a cluster of bird paintings and a plastic clock.

“Is it?”

Susannah’s smile turns sour.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking off the acerbic tone. “I didn’t mean to be—whatever.”

She cocks an eyebrow at me, the old her peeking through for a moment.

“Do-over?”

“Do-over,” I agree. “But come on, those paintings are weird. And the guy is—”

“Oh, the coffee guy sucks.” She nods. “The coffee’s good though.”

We’ve done it again—fallen into the familiar grooves of friendship, forgetting ourselves for a moment. I consider letting it go on a bit longer. But it’ll only make this harder.

“Susannah,” I begin. “I’m going to leave you alone after this. I promise. If that’s what you want.”

Her face tenses. I continue:

“But I need to tell you something.”

She sits back, folding her arms.

“A few weeks ago,” I say, as evenly as possible, “Patrick called my aunt Barbara.”

Susannah holds completely still.

“Caitlin’s mom.”

A blink. Then she shuts her eyes and rolls her head as if working out a kink in her neck.

“Uh-huh, okay.” She knits her eyebrows, looking at me. “Sorry, what?”

“He called Caitlin’s mother,” I repeat.

“That’s—” Susannah shakes her head. “Alice, what is it you’re trying to tell me?”

“Apparently, he felt he owed her some sort of penance, or atonement.”

Susannah looks toward the bird paintings, her mouth making soundless shapes.

For just a second, I feel real hope. This was my last shot, and it landed.

Susannah’s woken up. If I accomplish nothing else, at least I’ll have done this.

What the hell was I thinking? she’ll say.

I’ve got to get out of this. And I won’t ask any questions—not now, or ever.

I’ll just help pack up her things and haul them to her parents’ house. I’ll just help.

“Okay,” Susannah declares. “Got it.”

She whips back, her hair flying over her shoulder, freshly trimmed and bladelike, slicing through the vision.

“Well,” I say, straining to read her taut face. “What do you think about that?”

“Um. None of your business?” she says with a crisp little titter. “The phone call and my thoughts on it.”

She picks off a hunk of scone and pops it into her mouth.

Why is everyone still doing this? Why are we pretending he is a normal person, and this is a normal situation and I’m the one ruining everything?

“Okay,” I reply. “But I think we’re past that, right? Propriety and stuff.”

Her eyes flash at me. I glare back, stung and emboldened. Hopelessness will do that.

“Is that it, Alice?” she asks. “Is there more?”

“Sure. Plenty.”

I shrug.

“Alex Chapman?” I toss out. “Any thoughts on him, or no comment?”

Her face drops slowly, eyes widening.

“Why in God’s name would you—”

“What? He was Patrick’s best friend; you must have known him.”

“I did,” she answers, swift and firm. “Not well, but certainly better than you.”

“But it’s full steam ahead with the wedding plans? What’s Patrick going to say about the best man’s mysterious, tragic suicide?” A macabre thought hits me. “What’s he going to tell the magazine ?”

“We’re not doing the magazine,” she spits. “We pulled out, because of Alex. Out of respect.”

She lifts her eyebrows at me: Ever heard of it?

“And yes, we’re still getting married. We considered changing dates again but—”

Susannah straightens up again, glancing past my shoulder at the door.

“Actually, no. I’m not doing this with you.” She gives one downcast, decisive nod. “I tried, but I guess that’s that.”

She stands, tucking her hair behind her ears with a tidy flick and reaches for her purse. I watch in silence, both furious and enthralled. Something’s cracked the seal on Susannah’s prim new facade, letting out the real her.

“I’m sorry this has been so hard for you—I really am,” she says, fussing with her bag. “But it’s not actually my problem, and I can’t take it on. I’m going to have my own family. I’m getting married.”

There’s a split-second stumble before her last sentence. Not even a pause—just a slight hitch in her rhythm. You’d have to know her well to even catch it. And you’d have to know her very well to see the subtle change in her face: the slow-motion blink as she briefly shuts her eyes.

To know what it means, you’d have to know her like I do.

“Oh God,” I say. “Susannah, no.”

She freezes, her anger faltering.

I press my face into my hands.

“You said you moved the date up for the magazine, and I just—” I scoff into my palms. “I just believed you.” I thought she’d had a facial.

“It was because of that,” Susannah insists, an edgy urgency in her voice. “Alice, I’d only just found out about the baby when I saw you at that fundraiser.”

The baby .

I drop my hands, defeated. I thought I’d hit the bottom, but here I am in free fall. This is hopelessness.

“Alice?”

I stand, picking up my own bag, my chair squealing against the floor. I’m about to sob or vomit—not sure which, but I have to get out of here.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “That’s that.”

Or maybe I’ll scream.

“If you’d let me, I’d like to—”

I cut her off with a brisk shake of the head, repulsed by the thought of it—letting her explain .

“I don’t know what is wrong with you,” I say, barely above a whisper. “But something is very, very wrong.”

I charge out of the café. Outside, the world has woken up.

Commuters stride past, heading for the train.

Parents steer their children down the sidewalk, the kids all dressed in camp shirts or swim gear, buzzing with summer energy.

I skirt around them, storming into the tiny parking lot tucked between the café and the pharmacy next door.

I’m head down, aiming for my car, when Susannah’s voice hits me in the back.

“Hey!” she shouts. “Alice!”

I wheel around, ready for a fight—and a fight is what I find.

“Susannah,” I warn as she steps into the parking lot. “I—”

“No, shut up, I’m done listening to you.”

She’s on full-blast now—her most outraged and unguarded self.

“You know why I suggested getting together again? So I could tell you in person.”

She gestures sharply to her midsection.

“So you wouldn’t find out from someone else.

I’d barely found out myself and I was already worried about how you’d take it.

Meanwhile, you’re all over town, talking to everyone, getting stuff from the cops.

You make this big display, dragging the whole thing up again.

I’m thinking, Okay, she’s upset. But we’re adults. We’ve all got baggage. ”

“Baggage?!”

My voice breaks on the word, cracking into a shriek. A handful of startled faces turn from the sidewalk, then quickly look away.

“Susannah, listen to yourself,” I implore. “Baggage.”

She holds her hands out, her eyes wide and reeling, searching for my point.

“He killed her!” I bark. “Patrick, your fiancé, killed a girl. A girl you knew, Susannah! A sixteen-year-old! He killed her. You know that, and—”

“I don’t!” she screams—really screams. “I don’t, and I—”

“What? You what?”

“I know what happened to Caitlin.” She forces the words out through gray, trembling lips. “And it was unspeakable. But I—I don’t think Patrick did it.”

Her eyes crack open, and she looks at me through dark, gleaming slits.

“I never did,” she says.