Page 95 of Old Money

I hesitate briefly, then shut the door behind me and head down the hall and into Gordon’s large, cool kitchen. The house is airy and serene and I’m annoyed at myself for noticing its loveliness. The dog settles in the wide opening between the kitchen and the living room, and behind him I catch a glimpse of a glass-paned wall that looks out over the treetops all the way to the river.

“It’s fine,” I say as Gordon fills a glass with water from the tap. “We can just talk. I don’t need anything.”

He slides the glass at me like a crotchety bartender.

“It’s a hundred and ten in the shade out there. And I don’t have air-conditioning.”

I give in and take the glass, drinking it down in two gulps.

“Thank you,” I offer. “May we begin now?”

He nods, his face unchanging. “You’re working at the club this summer, yes?”

I look back, mirroring his own flat expression.

“Am I supposed to ask how you know that?”

“I only ask because it surprised me. I can’t imagine why you’d go back there, this year especially.”

I lift my eyebrows, waiting for him to say more—to say it explicitly.

“And with your brother being who he is now,” Gordon continues, “I’m sure he’s not thrilled either.”

“That’s right,” I say, ignoring his little indirect jab. “You must remember us from when we lived over on High Top. I’m sure it’s strange to see us all grown-up.”

“Him, I see all over town—or his name anyhow, on all those yard signs. But you don’t live here anymore. So yes, it is a bit strange seeing you in my kitchen. Why are you here, Alice?”

For your clout, I think, though at the moment, I’d rather die than say so.

I’d expected him to be—at the very least—mortified in my presence. I’d expected some sort of stilted, shame-faced apology when faced with an actual relative of the person whose death he’d so brazenly exploited. But Gordon just seems annoyed at me for taking up his morning.

“Patrick’s getting married at the club this summer.”

“That much everyone knows.”

“Vanity Fairwill be there. They’re doing a story on the wedding.”

Gordon nods, waiting for more.

“What?” I stumble, irked and confused. “You knew that too?”

“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Whit Yates—he’s a doer. And he knows good press is worth more than a legal win. All that new media coverage about the murder,” he continues. “The new book edition, that—that internet radio show, you know,The Club.”

“The Club Kid,”I correct him.

“Asinine,” Gordon mutters. “Yes, all that. Like I said, the Yateses don’t run around suing, even when they have a case. They’re savvier than that. And surely, you see that something like—”

“Like having his wedding covered by the same magazine that blew up the murder story,” I finish dryly. “Yes, I get it. That’s why I’m here. I want to get it killed.”

Gordon lifts one eyebrow.

“And?”

“And—” I shake my head.Is he serious?“And I have information that’s compelling enough to do so. I’d like you to deliver it with me.”

I’ll let him think this is just about the wedding story. I’m not sure he needs to know everything I plan to do.

Gordon looks back with a softly knitted brow, lips parted. Finally, slowly, he shakes his head.