Page 59 of Old Money

T he taxi lets me out behind the village library—tiny and closed, as usual in the summer—and I walk the rest of the way to the club.

I reach the bottom of the service driveway just as a large green truck turns onto it.

I step off the road, watching from behind a tangle of honeysuckle, as the truck rumbles up the hill.

That’ll be the floral team. The wedding vendors are all scheduled to arrive before eleven, and finish setup in time for a final cleaning before the reception starts.

The club staff gets a late start today—a mandatory morning off to keep out of the way (and mitigate the fug of body heat in the clubhouse). I’m not supposed to be here at all.

***

Now the stiff backs dig into my heels as I near the top of the service driveway, approaching the clubhouse from behind.

When the southeast corner appears in my view, I step off the path and wade into the trees, walking the rest of the way through the woods.

The morning is loud with late-summer sounds: gossiping birds, chipmunks and squirrels rustling through bushes, and cicada song pulsing behind it—a manic rhythm that thrums around the clock this time of year. You just have to get used to it.

But only for one more day , I tell myself, picking my way across the mossy ground.

This time tomorrow, I’ll be back in the city, safe and where I belong.

I considered just staying right there at the station until the first southbound train arrived.

I’d leave my stuff at the Alcott and deal with it later, or never—who needed stuff ?

I did, of course. My stuff wasn’t just stuff—it was notes and recordings and stolen police records.

And it wasn’t just at the Alcott. I had a few transcript copies there, and some others at Jamie’s apartment (what was I thinking printing things?).

But everything important is still inside the clubhouse, including the phone I left behind when I fled the library.

And the most important things—my laptop, my files, Jessie’s original thumb drive—are sitting in my bag, in the bottom left drawer of Jamie Burger’s desk.

The trees thin out as I reach the edge of the thicket, giving me a clear view of the staff parking lot and the rear of the clubhouse.

I wait in a crouch a few feet back, listening for voices and scanning the scene for movement.

The florist’s truck is parked at the loading dock, but the back is closed and the engine’s cut.

They’ll be inside, rushing to set up before the next team arrives.

The only other car in the lot is mine—my borrowed old Volkswagen, sitting smack in the middle, red and conspicuous as a nosebleed.

What if I don’t get in and out before the club staffers start trickling in?

How long before Jamie knows I’m here, and how long until he finds me, and what happens then?

For the second time since sunrise, I think about just getting in the car and going.

Forget my evidence; I’ll just bail. I’ll leave an anonymous tip on some anonymous tip line, then go buy a new laptop and find a new job and let the cops handle Jamie however they want.

I allow myself the fantasy for ten whole seconds, then I leap out of the woods and bolt across the parking lot. I race into the boot room and head down the staff hall. I don’t slow down until I reach the staff entrance to the library.

I peer in, relieved to see the fire isn’t lit yet—a sure sign that the coast is clear. I pause at the sound of distant voices echoing from one of the ballrooms, and the brief buzz of a hand drill. Whatever they’re doing, they sound busy. Still, I have to be quick.

I scan the library, seeing it’s already been cleaned and freshened, the wood surfaces gleaming and pleasantly reeking of polish. Someone’s tidied up the bar and cleared away the tissue boxes and hair spray I laid out last night.

As expected, my phone is gone too. I didn’t have high hopes, but I still feel a sinking ball of fear at its absence.

I check behind the bar, along each wall of bookshelves, and under the sofa and reading chairs, and then check them all again, just in case—nothing.

The only question now is what Jamie will do with it—the recordings, the texts, the numbers in my call log.

Would he risk using it to implicate Patrick?

Maybe. But it might be easier to point the finger elsewhere.

No matter how you frame it, my phone is pretty damning evidence of what I’ve been doing.

One of the voices shouts to another, sounding a bit closer now—in the gallery, I think. I quietly back out of the library and into the dark staff hall. I turn and take off at a jog, heading toward the west side of the clubhouse and Jamie’s office.

I pause in the doorway. Jamie’s desk chair sits swiveled to the side, and I picture him leaning back in it, drumming his fingers on the blotter.

How many hours did I sit in here with him?

Laughing at his jokes, telling him the truth about so many things.

And then, oh God, the little crush I’d given in to—the sweet, harmless diversion I’d allowed myself.

I’d thought it was fun, the way we never talked about it head-on.

I’d liked the way we weren’t dating, and never even used words like that—almost pretending it was forbidden (My boss!

My brother’s friend—oh no!). It felt sexy and complicated in a high-school way, and how I’d relished that escape from the hideous, mundane mess I was mired in.

Didn’t I deserve a stab at youthful sex and romance when my actual youth was so devoid of anything so carefree?

The fact that I thought it was simple, and something that I chose—that’s the worst part. That’s the part that makes me bend over the desk and heave. I stand there retching, bringing up nothing, and then finally, one ragged sob. And then I get it together.

I scoot around to the back of the desk and open the bottom drawer.

Cool relief runs down my back—it’s there.

My bag is there, thank God. I slide the laptop out, just to ensure it’s in one piece and still locked.

I unzip the bag’s small inner pocket and find the thumb drive right there where I left it, nestled among tubes of lip balm and keys.

The files are there too—it’s all there. I slide the laptop back inside, moving quickly again, and hoist the bag onto my shoulder.

I nudge the drawer with my knee, and as it slides shut, I notice something else inside: my phone.

It’s sitting there, right where my bag was.

As though someone tucked it underneath for safekeeping.

It still unlocks when I thumb in my passcode, and nothing’s been deleted or changed as far as I can tell—the battery’s nearly full.

I look down into the drawer again. He just left it there for me?

The back of my neck goes prickly at the thought, and I hold still over the drawer for a moment, wondering if I’m going to heave again.

“Ms. Wiley.”

I yelp at sound of his voice. Mr. Brody doesn’t even twitch.

“I could have you arrested,” he says, glaring from just outside the doorway.

“I—I don’t think you could, actually,” I answer. “But don’t worry, I’m leaving today.”

The tremble in my voice fades as I reply, the realization dawning on me: I’m no longer the slightest bit scared of him.

Mr. Brody doesn’t move as I pass him, close enough to smell the powdery scent of his aftershave. I stop and turn to face him, emboldened by the knowledge that I’ll never have to again.

“It wasn’t Patrick.”

“I never said that it was, Ms. Wiley—not to you or to anyone else.”

Registering my surprise, he continues. “I told you I saw Patrick Yates before and after the presumed killing, and indeed I did, among others.”

That awful boy. That’s what he said. He never should’ve been there.

“I told you I believed he’d killed the girl, and so I did, for many years. I believed you .”

Only you can claim to know.

“That was my grave mistake, Ms. Wiley. What of yours, eh?”

Mr. Brody takes a lunging step toward me, so sudden that I stumble back against the paneled wall.

“But then—you knew,” I mutter, stunned. “When? Why didn’t—”

“Why didn’t you , Ms. Wiley?” he demands in a quaking whisper. “My God, all these interrogations—why did you never question him ? Hmm? All this time, all this spectacle and fuss you’ve made, and he was there at your side. Perhaps you might consider that before demanding answers of me.”

He pulls away, shrugging back into composure before nodding a curt farewell. He hesitates then, tilting his head. His eyes narrow, but when he speaks again, there’s no menace in his voice. Only idle curiosity.

“And now you have the truth—awful though it is. I wonder, what will you do with it?”