Page 97 of Old Money

He leans forward, a hand on his chest again.

“I promise you that. Others did, I’m sure, but Viv and I left the party early that year. I’d started too early and by the end of dinner— Well, she wanted to get me home before I could embarrass her.”

“Wait, wasn’t that the whole point? That you were there?”

He sighs.

“It’s like me saying, ‘I knew the Yateses.’ Only technically true. But yes, that’s what got me the job. I was a member, and I was there. And I had plenty of that insider shit—club gossip and color. That’s what they really wanted from me.” He pauses for a short grunt of a chuckle. “I didn’t get it until later, when I saw that line they stuck on the cover: ‘The real story from the man who was there.’ ”

I look at him, my lips parted and dry. I understand what he’s told me, but not why.

Gordon stands, agitated again.

“There you have it,” he says. “I’ll show you out.”

He heads back into the kitchen, Duncan trotting behind. I stand, slowly, still confused. Now he’s throwing me out?

Gordon stands waiting at the sink, his hands splayed on either side.

“Okay, but—it worked. You’re the authority on the murder. I mean, as far as the public’s concerned.”

Gordon nods, not looking at me.

“So why won’t you help me? You don’t even have to do anything. You just have to show up.”

I’m giving you another shot. Why don’t you get off your ass and take it?

“I’m sorry, Alice.”

“This time youwillhave evidence.Ihave evidence, and I can share it with—”

“I saidno, goddamn it.”

“Why?” I demand, my voice jittery.

Gordon’s face hardens.

“For one thing, my authority, as you call it, is one fact-check away from falling apart. I didn’t actually write a book; I just aired some dirty laundry. I sat on a couch and called Whit Yates a pig, and said I was there when I wasn’t.”

This time, it sinks in: he really is all bullshit, and the Yateses—the whole village, probably—know it.

“They didn’t sue over my book because it wasn’t worth it. It didn’t include anything about Patrick that hadn’t already been said.”

Nothing novel or compelling, I think.Nothing credible.

“But if I go out there and start making new accusations? Reveal this new information you claim to have. What happens if your evidence comes out of my mouth?”

“Then Whit Yates shuts it down. I know, but—”

“Shuts it down by lunchtime. Legally. Easily. He’d call me a fraud, and he’d be right. I’m not going out there and giving them more ammo.”

Duncan whines at his side again—the sound of a strained violin.

“You’re scared,” I say simply.

“All the time. Every day of my life.”

I think of those conspiracy-minded Fairchild fans, imagining him living in hiding. Turns out they’re right, just for the wrong reasons. I think of the shiny new gate out front—the one with no number or mailbox. I wonder if he used to have one. I wonder if he ever found a note in it.