Page 84 of Old Money

The officer nods, turning back to her laptop.

“Jamie, I thought—” I’m still half-numb with shock. “What the hell happened?”

“A hit-and-run is what happened. Someone T-boned me with a massive SUV.”

“Why aren’t you at the hospital!”

“I’m really okay—nothing’s broken,” he assures me. “Just really fucking bruised.”

I see it now. He’s not fine. His bottom lip is swollen and bleeding. The top of his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a gash across his throat and collarbone.

“The seat belt,” he says, gesturing to it. “Trust me, it could’ve been worse. I pulled forward a little, just before he hit me.”

“What, yousawthe car coming?”

“No, no,” Jamie says. “I barely saw it after—fucker had hisheadlights off. No, I just saw the light was about to change and took my foot off the brake. Jumped the gun a little, but it probably saved my life. He didn’t hit dead center, just the back of the car.”

My eyes clamp shut as the scene runs through my mind: Jamie’s head whips sideways, the seat belt taut against his throat. A shattering boom as the car makes impact, a sudden hail of glass.

“I must have thrown his aim off,” Jamie continues. “He must not have realized I’d moved. Jerk was going so fast he probably couldn’t tell.”

“What are you saying exactly?”

“He just kept going, Alice,” Jamie answers, the swollen lip blurring his consonants. “He didn’t stop—he floored it. I didn’t see the front of the car, but it must’ve been wrecked. And he just kept going.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”

“Not a chance.”

I call over to the officer, now sitting in her open car, talking on a cell phone.

“Have they found the driver yet?”

“We’re working on it,” she says. “Among other things—it’s a holiday, you know.”

“Let’s get you home,” I tell Jamie. “How much longer do they need you?”

“Huh? Oh no, I’m good to go,” he says. “I was just waiting.”

My throat tightens.

“For me?”

A great burst over laughter overtakes him, and Jamie cups his neck and bends, laughing and grimacing at the same time.

“ForUber,” he says. “God, you really are an egomaniac.”

***

I spend the night—what’s left of it—in Jamie’s living room. While he dozes on the couch, I open my laptop and click blearily between my open tabs—Twitter, Facebook, theHudson ValleyJournalsite—refreshing and scanning for updates. So far, I’ve seen no mention of a hit-and-run or a black SUV, not even on the local crime blotters. Shouldn’t there be a public notice? Some sort of appeal for sightings? Regardless, someonewouldhave spotted it, unless it really did just vanish into the woods.

My phone buzzes, jolting me alert.

Did you see my email?

I blink at the message with scratchy eyes. I don’t recognize the number—it’s a number though, not asterisks. Another message pops up beneath.

Check your email. The other one.