Page 60 of Old Money

I sit on the floor of the airing cupboard, my back sticky against the door.

Early-afternoon sun creeps across the floor, streaming in through the window, amplifying the smell of mouse droppings and mothballs.

But I don’t dare open it, and risk someone noticing.

I’ve made it this far. A couple more hours and I’ll be out of here, one way or another.

Mr. Brody left me backed against the wall of the staff hall, his ominous question lingering as he walked away with visible satisfaction. I waited until he rounded the corner, then slowly inched forward. I took two silent, toe-heel steps down the staff hall, heading in the opposite direction.

Front door , I thought—more an instinct than a fully formed idea. Closest exit.

I made it to the lobby entrance before I heard the first familiar voices bouncing down the staff hall.

One of them was Cory’s—I recognized his snorting laugh.

I froze in the doorway for a prickling, terrified second, my mind blanking out.

Then I bolted across the lobby and up the staircase to the second floor.

I turned left and darted to the end of the hall, heading for the airing cupboard.

I pulled the door open and threw myself inside.

At first I could only hear the gasping of my own breath and a tinny ring in my ears.

When it subsided, I heard more familiar noises from below—doormen chatting in the lobby, and the distant wheeze of vacuums rumbling down the gallery.

Now the whole clubhouse is rumbling beneath me as the staff dash about, tending to final touches before the wedding guests arrive.

The airing cupboard was a good instinct, but not the best idea.

I can hide in here indefinitely, but sneaking out is another thing.

I’ll have to wait until cocktail hour, when it’s good and crowded.

The staff will be busy getting drinks in hands, and the guests will be busy drinking them.

I’ll wait until it sounds loud and chaotic, then slip out and head for the boot room, and I’ll be out of here, finally and for good.

And then?

What I have to do then is tell. I’ll start with village PD, because I want my new, amended statement on the record right away.

I want it saved and stored forever in the system: I was wrong.

That’s the part that feels like swallowed glass—like an emergency.

The urge to say it out loud, to someone’s face, is overwhelming.

And once I tell the authorities, I’ll tell the media.

I’ll keep my meetings with the podcast producers and the reporters.

I still have a story for them. I was wrong , I’ll begin. We all were. That’s the story.

That’s how it starts, at least. I don’t know what happens next—when or how they’ll come for Jamie.

I don’t think it’s a question of “if” though.

Jamie isn’t a Yates. He’s a normie—a janitor’s son.

The village will be all too glad to point the finger at someone else—and such an ideal target.

There was always something funny about him , they’ll say to each other. They always had a feeling.

In reality, it’s that same snobbery that let Jamie go unnoticed in the first place.

No one questions the fidgety kid in the cloakroom, so worthless to them—so accustomed to his worthlessness that he’s working unpaid, drinking free soda in lieu of dinner.

Yes, Theo and I were outsiders, and yes, the club members looked down on us, but Jamie they didn’t even see.

And neither did I. And probably for the same reason.

The truth is awful, as Brody said. But at least I know what to do with it. First the police. Then the press. Then I don’t know. Then I’ll have to go figure out the rest of my life.

***

A clanging bell rings in the distance, startling me awake. I jolt upright against the door, blinking in the blinding late-afternoon light. The cacophonous bells tumble over each other, and suddenly I recall what they’re for.

I pull myself up by the doorknob and walk on pins and needles to the window.

Outside, a line of SUVs and town cars snakes up the drive.

The first wave of guests has already arrived—I see a handful strolling the lawn, and others on the terrace.

The sounds of bubbly chatter float up as the church bells finally fade.

I step quietly back to the door and press my ear against it—no need though.

The clubhouse is audibly bustling with footsteps and whispered instructions and the tinkle of champagne flutes.

I listen, wondering if this is the moment, and then I hear a cheer go up outside.

I feel a dreadful sinking as I peer out the window again—but I have to look.

There they are: Patrick driving his dad’s baby blue Jaguar up the hill, and Susannah leaning out the window, waving with both hands.

Her smile is huge and victorious. Even from here, she is as happy as I’ve ever seen her.

I still recoil at this strange sight—I can’t help it—but there is a tiny flicker of warmth too.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be happy for her, but I do know that she deserves happiness.

And maybe ( maybe ) I can accept that she’s found it.

Maybe I don’t have to be the shadow over it.

I can’t think of Patrick in such generous terms. I can’t pretend I want him to be happy. But I do owe him a debt. I was wrong . I owe him that.

I watch the Jaguar crest the drive and pull up to the front entrance, disappearing from my view.

More cheers rise up from downstairs, and I realize it’s time.

The guests are flooding toward the lobby, and for the next few minutes, all eyes will be on the couple. This is my best shot at slipping out.

I lift my heavy bag, ensuring the zipper’s tight. Then I open the door, glancing left as I step right. It happens in a flash: a shadow appears on the edge of my vision, and before I can take another step, I slam hard and directly into Jamie Burger.