Page 57 of Old Money

But this is it. This is what we’ve been looking for. I don’t know what’s in the archive, but it’s not the incident reports. They’ve been here for the taking, the whole time.

I open another and flip through. Judging by the brittle pages, no one’s taken them off the shelf for years—maybe even decades.

Each sheet is topped with the date, time and incident type, followed by a brief summary—most of them one or two paragraphs in Mr. Brody’s familiar script.

The majority are common infractions: someone wearing shorts inside at the grill, kids joyriding in golf carts, the occasional fender-bender in the driveway after a party.

I’d estimate half the entries are regarding late dues or unpaid bar tabs, but I know I’m in the right place.

Flipping through pages, I catch flashes of words like “injury” and “intoxicated” and more than one mention of shouting.

I crack open a fourth binder, brush past the first few pages and then suddenly, it’s there.

Date: July 4, 1999

Time/Time of Day: Evening

Location: Pool

Incident Type: Death

Summary: The body of Caitlin Dale (daughter of member Gregory Dale) was recovered from the pool shortly after the fireworks display, during the annual Independence Day party.

Ms. Dale had been excused from the party by her mother (Barbara Dale) earlier in the evening, following complaints of disruptive behavior and presumed inebriation.

Upon excusal, she exited the clubhouse and absconded to the pool area, along with her cousin (non-member guest/child).

Shortly thereafter, a young man was observed departing the north exit in evident pursuit.

Per further accounts, he then attacked Ms. Dale, who was killed during the encounter.

Local authorities were alerted and arrived shortly thereafter.

I read it again, confused. I turn the page, looking for more, but there is none—that’s it.

“Alice!” Jamie calls in a hissing whisper. “Alice, fuck !”

I turn and see him bounding across the lobby at a sprint.

“I’ve been texting you!” he barks, frantic. “Come on! I’ve got the—”

I shake my head rapidly.

“What?” he says, stopping in the door. “What is it? Alice, I have —”

“I have the report, Jamie.” I hold up the binder. “They’re in here.”

His eyes widen and he grasps the door frame.

“It’s not—” I look back at the report once more. “I can’t believe it.”

“What?” says Jamie softly. “What does it say?”

I walk to the doorway and thrust the binder at him, my hands still shaking. When he takes it, his start trembling too.

I watch him read it. And read it again. His brow furrows, he peers closer and then he looks up at me.

“It doesn’t say his name.”

I shake my head, affirming. The incident report—the only key evidence left, as far as we know—does not say Patrick Yates’s name anywhere. It’s damning in every way except the one that matters most. It says she was attacked and killed—it even says the killer pursued her. But it doesn’t say his name.

“Also, see there’s a parenthetical beside everyone else?” I murmur, pointing. “ ‘Daughter of member,’ ‘non-member guest’? There isn’t one for him.”

“Yeah. It just calls him a young—”

“Ahem.”

We both freeze at the sound. I look up at Jamie’s pale, frightened face. Then we both turn toward the lobby, where Mr. Brody stands, hands folded in front of him, taut as a plucked piano string.

“What?” I call, my voice high and warbling. “What does it matter?”

Brody inhales, fury humming off him. I hold my ground.

“Alice,” Jamie breathes. He bends his head and turns his face away from Mr. Brody’s glare.

“No!” I snap, still facing Brody. “It makes no difference. All it proves is he’s a coward.”

Mr. Brody slowly crosses the carpet.

“My keys,” he says to Jamie, his eyes still on mine, motionless and wide.

Without a word, Jamie fumbles in his pocket, fishes out the keys and drops them into Mr. Brody’s hand.

“I’ll leave you to finish this up then.” Mr. Brody nods. “Looks like you’re just about done here.”

He turns his back on us and crosses the lobby, resuming his swift, silent pace.

“Jesus,” Jamie exhales. “You really said that.”

“Yeah. It felt great .”

I take the binder out of Jamie’s arms.

“So much for the big break-in. Sorry you dragged all that booze downstairs.”

Jamie nods absently. He looks out into the lobby.

“Hey.” I wave for his attention. “You have to get back out there.”

“Huh?” He turns back, still shaken. “Right.”

“Jamie, don’t worry about the report. It was a long shot.”

But even as I say it, I remember: Jamie’s got other things to worry about. Like finding a new job after spending his entire career in this one. I rest the binder on an end table and reach for Jamie’s hand.

“We’ll figure it out. Let’s just get through tonight.” I squeeze his clammy hand, nodding toward his neck. “Let me fix your tie.”

Jamie blinks, coming out of the daze. He touches a hand to his collar, where his crooked tie has come undone.

“Ah, shit.”

“It’s fine.” I pull him toward me. “It needed a re-do anyway. Chin.”

I slip the loosened tie off, lifting Jamie’s collar, glad to be helpful for a change.

“See, it was worth hiring me after all. No way you’d find another admin who can do a four-in-hand knot.”

I steal a glance at Jamie, his face upturned toward the ceiling and still visibly tense. But he manages a half laugh.

“I should put it on my résumé,” I continue, my voice overly chipper. “I could list it as a special...”

That’s when the first thought hits me. Not even a thought—just an image.

It flashes in my mind for less than a second: a younger Jamie, gangly and big-eyed in the cloakroom, standing like a scarecrow in a suit that doesn’t quite fit, his tie askew.

He has that same expression: mouth flat, nostrils flared—not frustrated, but upset. Upset and on the verge of tears.

“All good?” Jamie asks—the adult one—pulling me back into the here and now.

“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “Almost done.”

I watch my fingers work the tie, circling the wide end around again—the trickiest turn in the knot. Once again the scene appears: young Jamie’s cheeks flush as Caitlin pokes at him. Is he really here all alone? Won’t he need a grown-up to drive him home for bedtime? And then she’d turned to me:

Is this your little boyfriend?

Her voice sounds different in this memory—sharper, more giggly. But then, I haven’t dwelled much on this part of the night. (Why would I? It’s not the part that mattered.) So maybe my recollection is off. Was she really that mean?

“No,” I say, speaking the thought aloud—startling myself and Jamie.

He glances down.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The word stumbles from my mouth. “Done.”

What had Mr. Brody just said? I’ll leave you to finish this up . Had he been talking to me?

I let go of Jamie’s tie and quickly turn back to the bar, surveying my array of combs and cans of hair spray. I need to put some distance between us.

“When did your dad pick you up that night?” I ask. “The night of—”

“A little after nine,” he says before I finish. “Just before the fireworks.”

A tiny gasp comes out of me. Jamie doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s heard it. When I turn around, his face is soft and almost drowsy—as though we’ve had this conversation countless times.

“I thought so,” I say, a soft quiver rising my voice. “I just wondered—why didn’t you wait?”

Jamie doesn’t answer yet. He waits for me to ask the rest.

“Because you told us—” I’m shaking all over now—jerky adrenaline tremors “—when we came to the cloakroom. You said you were going to watch the fireworks too.”

He’d been babbling, painfully nervous in front of Caitlin.

They’re not paying me. But I get to stay for the fireworks.

That was the whole point. That’s why he’d spent July Fourth in the cloakroom and not at some kid’s party, or at home with his dad.

Jamie watches silently as I eye him up and down, appraising him against his younger self: tall for his age, all knuckles and long strides.

From behind, his baggy suit might have looked like a deliberate choice—like the oversize shirts and jackets Patrick favored.

His messy hair might’ve looked intentionally grown out.

And the face, when I saw it, mottled red and twisted in rage.

I’d never seen such an expression before, and yet I knew that face instantly—not because it was famous but because it was familiar.

“Oh, Alice. Please.”

My feet start moving before I realize it. Three quick steps and I’m at the door. Jamie lurches back, allowing me to pass, but then he grasps my forearm and we both freeze.

I look down at his hand around my wrist. I remember how we all froze back then too, when it was Caitlin’s arm in his grip. Then I see Jamie’s other hand clench into a fist, and something in me starts to shriek.

“Alice,” he says again, but I’m already running.

And then I’m past him, in the lobby. And then I’m at the front door.

And then I’m through it, brushing past Cory, and then I’m outside in the hot, windy twilight, and the tent is a raucous blur, and the imprint of Jamie’s fingers throbs around my wrist. I stop short at the top of the driveway, looking down at the open gate. And then I run again.