Page 61 of Old Money

M y vision blurs bright white and I cup my left eye, the pain so huge that I can’t even move.

“Alice, shit—are you okay? Alice?”

I stare at the floor as the world reemerges. Then the panic strikes. My breath turns shallow, and I’m suddenly, acutely conscious of the fact that I’m standing at the dead end of the hallway with my back to the wall. I know I have to run.

“Jesus, Alice, I need to talk to you.”

Jamie’s face is gray, his eyes rimmed red and underscored by deep, bruise-purple rings.

“I...” he begins, then—nothing.

I run. For the second time, I run from him in wholehearted fear for my life. No , I think. The third time. I picture my little-girl hands grasping at the damp ground as I scrambled up the hill and away from the pool.

I reach the other end of the upstairs hallway, careening onto the staff steps, still gripped by the feeling that I am both here now, and out on that hill in 1999.

I’ve slipped through a hole in the timeline of my own life, living and reliving—only now I know who I’m really running from.

Now everything makes sense: they didn’t believe me, because I was wrong.

It wasn’t a cover-up; it was a massive, ridiculous oversight—the kind that can happen in insular, affluent corners of the world.

I reach the main-floor landing, pausing for an instant, peering through the nearest staff door just in front of me.

Someone’s left it open and from here, I can see all the way down the gallery—now filled with wedding guests.

A dark-haired man stands with his back to me, chatting in a circle near the open staff door.

He seems to feel my eyes on him and turns to glance over his shoulder.

“Alice,” comes a voice from above—Jamie’s angry, urgent whisper.

My body jerks into motion again, hurtling down the next flight of stairs, and out onto the subterranean level.

I stand frozen at the head of the basement hall, my eyes darting between the north and south exits.

If I take the south, I’ll be plainly visible to any guests coming up the drive, as well as the doormen at the front. But if I go the other way, I’ll—

Footsteps thunder down the stairs behind me, coming fast.

Panicked, I dash across the hall, shoving through the nearest door—forget the exits, I just need to hide. I shut the door and hurl myself against it, my ear pressed to the green-painted wood. I listen for Jamie’s footsteps, breathing as quietly as I can.

Behind me, someone scoffs.

My eyes refocus, and I realize where I am: the men’s locker room. I can tell from the clear, crisp sound of the scoff that the room is almost empty— almost the perfect hiding spot.

“Jesus,” he says. “I should’ve guessed.”

I push myself off the door, my sweaty cheek unpeeling with a soft thwack. Then I turn around.

He stands at the sinks, facing me through the mirror with a paper napkin in his hands. He balls up the napkin, tosses it in the trash and turns to face me.

“What now, Alice?” Patrick asks.