“Maybe they do.” DeFiore shrugs. “So what? Those events have no bearing on her state of mind two nights ago. The EMT and sheriff’s reports will determine that. Once I get them—and CCTV footage from the streets and playground—I’ll know more. Of course, we’d argue it was dark, the witnesses were a distance away, what have you. But assaulting a woman who blacked out is a much higher level of charge. An unconscious person can’t give consent, no matter how many times she may have lied in the past.”
“Look, Mr. DeFiore,” I say.
“Peter, please.”
“Peter. Diana Holly is disturbed. If you can establish a pattern of abusive behavior—”
“Knock it off, Cassie,” Nate says. “Let the guy do his job.”
DeFiore looks amused. “I’ll take that under advisement . . . uh . . . Counselor? I thought you were studying”—he checks his notes—“political science?”
“I watch a lot of Law and Order.”
“Great, so you can be my co-counsel.” Wiping his mouth, he turns to Lawrence. “If you decide to hire me. I don’t mean to presume.” He stands up. “Sorry, I have to run.”
DeFiore’s reticence throws me. I imagined him having an assassin’s temperament, the kind of guy who’d rip into Diana Holly like an animal.
“You’re hired.” Lawrence also stands up. “We’ll see you at the courthouse in the morning. Should we bring anything? Do anything? Say anything?”
“Say nothing to no one.” On this point, DeFiore is unequivocal. “No one. If you feel compelled to speak up, to clear Billy’s good name, to call for justice—do not. The only time you should talk is with an attorney present. Me or one of my team.” He glances at us. “Got it?”
Nodding, we each shake his hand.
“And Mrs. Quinn?” DeFiore asks.
“No problem,” Lawrence assures him. “I’ll talk to Eleanor tonight.”
We watch DeFiore lumber out. “All due respect, Lar,” I say. “Don’t be so quick to speak for your wife.”
9
THE WORLD OF THE WEALTHY IS SMALL AND CLANNISH. THE Forresters, my biological family, were old-money bankers. CW’s father attended Groton, as had his father, and his father, all the way back to 1884. They donated generously to the school, endowing millions of dollars in scholarships for disadvantaged youths. One such recipient was Lawrence Quinn.
When they met, Lawrence was thirteen, and CW was forty-two. Back then, hazing was rampant at Groton, and Second Formers （eighth graders） were the targets. Lawrence was subjected to ice-cold showers, petty theft, and humiliating pranks that could turn violent. Luckily, the Forresters’ scholarship program included a mentoring component, and CW spent two Fridays a month teaching Lawrence essential life lessons, like how to beat back a bully or tie a perfect Windsor knot. In turn, Lawrence helped CW, a twice-divorced Wall Street wizard, relive his youth. Ultimately, the program worked as intended: Lawrence had a father figure to admire, and CW had an impressionable young man to mold in his own image.
Lawrence and CW’s ad hoc but sincere fraternal connection inspired everything that came next. When Lawrence was in his last year at Columbia, CW introduced him to Eleanor Stockton, who was a senior at Wellesley with his niece, my first cousin Clarey. Sparks ignited, and by graduation, Lawrence had asked Eleanor to marry him with a ring financed by CW. After their wedding, the couple moved into the Stocktons’ historic Valmont home （Eleanor’s parents had retired to Palm Beach）， and a few years later, CW married Rachel Richardson and moved into his family home two floors below. Initially, Eleanor and Rachel kept their distance, but soon their lives were enmeshed. Eleanor introduced Rachel to the charity circuit. Rachel helped Eleanor find a speech pathologist. My nanny and the boys’ nanny were second cousins.
As chairman of Forrester Holdings, CW traveled for a living and preferred that his much-younger wife accompanied him. Rachel, who’d quit her job at CW’s bank and relied on his support, was in no position to object. I stayed behind, though not with a nanny or housekeeper. Instead, my parents left me with the Quinns for days at a stretch. Which is why, when CW had a stroke—alone for once, in a Brussels hotel—I was already living upstairs. CW’s death sent Rachel spiraling, but Lawrence stepped in. “We’ll take her,” he offered. “Let me do this for you, Rachel. Let me be a father to Cassie, the kind of father CW would’ve wanted her to have.”
Everyone was pleased. CW could rest in peace. Rachel was unburdened. Eleanor finally had a girl after years of trying. Lawrence could repay his mentor. But two years later, tragedy struck again. Rachel died in a car accident—alone, in Florida, at the wheel—leaving me with no close blood family except CW’s older sister and her awful daughter Clarey. When I turn twenty-five, I’ll inherit CW’s fortune. And yet, despite all the stories of wealthy orphans with calculating relatives, no one offered to raise me. No one except Lawrence and Eleanor Quinn.
People are skeptical of the rich. We are selfish and self-absorbed. We are oblivious to poverty, to the needs of others. We are greedy. We are corrupt. We eat our own. But this isn’t all we are. The Quinns are obscenely wealthy. They have everything money can buy. But when presented with a problem that wasn’t theirs to solve, they didn’t turn their backs, nor did they take the easy way out and write a check. Instead, they opened the door and invited me in—not to visit, but to stay. So, maybe Eleanor can seem cold, and Lawrence tries too hard. Maybe they’re not always kind, or good, to each other; maybe they’re not good at all. But Lawrence and Eleanor were good to me. For this, and for everything else they’ve given me, I was, I am, beyond grateful. To a sad, lonely orphan girl, the Quinns were, the Quinns are, are a gift from God.
*
At midnight, I’m studying at my desk when Eleanor enters my room. She’s so quiet, I don’t realize she’s behind me until I see her shadow in the mirror.
Startled, I let out a yelp. “Oh my God, Eleanor.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She shakes her head. “I can’t sleep, so I’m wandering around, trying to find a place to put myself.”
“That’s the problem with mansions,” I say. “Too many damn rooms.”
So it was Eleanor, not Maeve, in the hall last night. Poor Eleanor. In our family, Lawrence is the good cop. Eleanor is all the other cops. She isn’t given to overt emotion. To turn to me for comfort—to show up at my door—means she’s going insane.
Years ago, Eleanor went beyond the beyond to make me feel welcome here. One special gift was my bedroom. When I was old enough, she let me pick out the colors, mint green and white, and filled the shelves with my favorite books, stuffed animals, and toys. The animals and toys are gone, but the décor in this room has barely changed.
Turning on a lamp, I motion for Eleanor to sit. My floor is still a disaster site. Clothing, boots, belts, and books are strewn everywhere. I move to fold a sweater when Eleanor says “Leave it, dear. It’s not important,” which is another sign of her distress. Growing up, our bedrooms and bathrooms had to be immaculate, not that she ever set foot in them. I can’t actually remember the last time she was in my room, much less on my bed. Under normal circumstances, this breach of privacy would be unthinkable.