Page 34 of Old Money
But it’s not Jamie. It’s not anyone. It’s not a phone number at all—just ten asterisks in a row. If it weren’t for the message, I’d assume it was spam or some robo-text. But there’s no doubt a person sent this.
Get back in your car and leave.
I stare at it, not quite registering the words. And then one more appears.
Now.
Chapter Sixteen
Iarrive at the club fifteen minutes later, parking in the staff lot and doing my hair in the car. I pin it into a smooth French twist and spritz my hairline with hairspray. My hands aren’t shaking; my pulse remains unhurried. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Yes, I’ve received a fairly threatening anonymous text, from someone who was clearly watching me, and for all I know, still is. I’m scared, sure, but right this minute, I’m relieved. Turns out I made a ripple after all.
“Alice?” Jamie calls, and I lean over, looking through the windshield.
He’s leaning through the staff door, his jaw set and so tense I can see it from here. He waves me over impatiently, and I nod, getting out of the car.
“You didn’t call me back,” he mutters as I step into the boot room.
I start my calm, practiced reply, but he cuts me off.
“Never mind, it’s fine. Listen, Patrick and Susannah are here.”
“What?”
Jamie lifts a finger, shushing me. My voice is loud in the tiny staff entry.
“Herehere?” I whisper, pointing at the floor. “Or Briar’s Green.”
“The club. They’re here for the walk-through. For the wedding. I tried to tell you.”
“The wedding is in August! Aren’t they in Europe?”
“Yeah, no, they were. We were supposed to do this next month with the planners. I guess— I don’t know! She just called this morning and here we fuckin’ are.”
Jamie is clearly on the edge of panic. I’m starting to get there myself.
We speed down the gallery to the break room.
“Where are they now?” I ask, trying to triage.
“They had breakfast at the grill,” Jamie says. “Just finished. His parents are coming too, by the way.”
Right, I think.One of them on horseback.
We reach the lobby and turn into the staff hall behind the reception desk. I quickly dig out my time card and stick it in the mouth of the punch-in clock on the wall, then follow Jamie into the break room.
“Coffee?” he asks. “Have you eaten?”
“Huh? No, thanks, I’m good.”
He goes to the coffee machine anyway, grabbing a paper cup and punching buttons until it clunks to life. His hands, I see, are trembling.
“Hey,” I say. “Jamie, what are you worried about exactly? Is it the walk-through?”
He gives me the coffee I didn’t ask for.
“You’re not going to faint again, right? If you see him?”
