Page 83 of Old Money

The nurse sighs hard into the receiver.

“Then I can’t disclose details. But nobody from that accident was admitted,” she says. “Or discharged.”

“Oh.”

“Do you understand?”

“You mean he’s still there? In the ER?”

“No, ma’am.”

Now I hear it—it’s there in the “ma’am.” Solemnity. A little sympathy. The nurse waits another moment, then speaks again.

“I’ll have to hang up now. I’m sorry.”

My lungs pull in a sharp breath. I drive in a daze, muscle memory guiding me back south on the highway, toward Briar’s Green.

Inch by inch, reality descends. Jamie is dead. A few hours ago, he was sitting in a pub with his feet propped up, his face flushed and animated, making him look even younger than his thirty-two years. He’d had iced tea and some soggy fries—the last meal he’d ever eat. I was the last person he’d ever talk to. And it’s all my fault. I involved him. I’m the reason he was out tonight. I’m the one who called.

I come to a red light at a four-way intersection. It takes several seconds before I register the orange flare on the road, just past the traffic light. I hadn’t been thinking when I turned back south on the same highway Jamie was on. I’ve driven directly into the scene of the accident. It’s real. Even from here, I can see how bad it was.

The light changes, and I roll slowly through the intersection, nauseated as I navigate around lingering shards of plastic—bumper parts, maybe. The car is gone, and most of the mess has been cleaned up, but it’s clear there was a mess. The roadglimmers with smashed glass, and there’s an acrid stench in the air—that ominous mix of oil and burnt mechanics.

A lone police vehicle remains, its red light twirling silently. The driver’s side door is open, and the officer stands beside it with a small, chunky laptop perched on the roof. Her hair is tied back in a braid, and at first, I think of Jessie. Then I see the uniform: a State Trooper, not a village cop. (But oh my God, Jessie. Who will tell her?) The officer glances back, waving me onward.

I roll down my window.

“Everyone all right?”

“Just go around please, ma’am,” the officer says, not looking back. “Thank you.”

I don’t want to though. I don’t want to see the rest of it.

My knuckles go white on the wheel as I gently press the gas, rumbling forward, my eyes straight ahead. Passing the police car, I glimpse something shiny on my right. I hold my gaze forward, trying to stop thinking of what it might be: twisted metal. Mirror shards. The glasses he kept above the visor.

“Alice?”

My foot jerks to the brake and the car stops with aneek, my head thwacking against the headrest as I look out the open window.

It’s an emergency blanket—the same crinkly, shiny kind they gave me.

And it’s him. It’s Jamie.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Ifumble for the car door and get out, stumbling toward the shoulder.

“Are you—”

“Totally fine,” says Jamie.

I list forward, slamming into him with a hard, clumsy hug.

“Ah, shit.” Jamie pats my shoulder. “Alice, my ribs.”

I jump back. Jamie waves to the officer.

“It’s okay. This is the friend I was with before.”