“I don’t know, Nate. Why do you always have to jump all over me?”
My brother gets irritated when I talk about Yale. He’s on the equities desk at Bessemer Trust and has hated his job from day one. The plan was for me to graduate, for him to quit, and for the two of us to join the foundation together. Instead, I took off. But rather than leave Bessemer—which he can do, at any time—he chose to stay. He’s still miserable, but now he blames this on me. Obviously, there’s more to the story than impulsivity （mine） and inertia （his）， but rather than discuss it explicitly like adults, we taunt each other with insults that are steeped in resentment （his） and guilt （mine）。
“So, what happens next?” I ask.
“Dad’s at the jail with the Bowtie, trying to get answers.”
“He called Burt?”
“I know. The guy can’t handle a bank deposit. How’s he gonna deal with a felony? But it was three o’clock in the morning, and no one else was around. So, for the moment, the Bowtie is our holy savior, shepherd, and redeemer.”
Nate and I laugh, pals again, united in our animosity toward the Bowtie. Burt Archer is a longtime friend of our mother. During parties, he stands in the corner like an antique spindly lamp, feigning a friendly affect while pointing out who got fat and who went broke. My parents’ circle is lousy with Burt Archers, but my brothers and I loathe the Bowtie the most.
“Is he helping?” I ask.
“Fuck no,” Nate replies. “He told Dad he knows a few judges in New Jersey, so he’s calling in favors to get Billy released. But he’s, like, five hundred years old, so most of his cronies are retired or dead. One thing he can do, though, is stave off the press. The Bowtie is a gossip whore with enough dirt to make a few media dons back off, at least for the moment. If this gets out, Billy will get hammered.”
“Maybe not. Billy hasn’t had it easy, Nate. He’s had his share of problems—”
My brother cuts me off. “He’s had rich-people problems, Cassie. Park Avenue problems. The kind of problems that evoke disgust, not sympathy. Billy is the whole trifecta: rich, white, Ivy League athlete. Put those together, and you’ve got a story everyone knows. The one where the loudmouthed jock gets tanked, loses control, and attacks the nearest female.”
“Loudmouth? Billy stutters, Nate. He doesn’t drink. He rarely goes out. He was in therapy for years—”
“Speech therapy.”
“Therapy is therapy, Nate. It counts.”
“Look, Cass. You know I agree with you. But these days, it’s hashtag–believe women. The world is gunning for white guys, and the rich rapist is a fan favorite. Especially the ending, where he’s convicted and dragged away in handcuffs, leaving his family disgraced and penniless.”
The chances of our family ending up penniless are nil, even if we’re saddled with exorbitant legal fees. But the image of Billy in handcuffs pierces my heart.
“Thankfully, Billy’s situation is different,” Nate continues. “Diana is unreliable, and her behavior is erratic. Dad said the cops will drop the charges once they get a clearer picture of her and Billy’s relationship. In a perverse way, it’s better that she was the one who accused him rather than some random girl he met at the party. But in the meantime, we have to keep his name out of the papers and off the internet. Otherwise, his Google hits will follow him the rest of his life.”
“You’re not worried? Even a little?” My own stomach is in knots that keep tightening.
“No, I’m not worried. He’ll be fine. Just get in your car and come home. But do everyone a favor, Cassidy Cakes. Try not to drive like a maniac.” Nate’s voice is softer and more loving. Trust me. Trust Dad. “Cass, we’re talking about Diana Holly. It’s Billy’s word against hers. Who do you think people will believe?”
2
THE DRIVE FROM NEW HAVEN TO MANHATTAN TAKES AN hour and change, longer with traffic. But the last time I made this trip, I went door-to-door in fifty-six minutes. Afterward, when I sat down to Christmas dinner, I was full of myself. I flew here, I announced as I slid into my chair. I was unstoppable. But no one was impressed, Billy least of all. “What are you trying to prove, Cassie?” he asked sharply, puncturing my good mood. “You’re gonna kill yourself one day.” I started to protest, but the conversation had turned, and my voice got lost in the chatter.
It’s dark outside; rather, it would be if not for the spotlights shining through my windows at discreet intervals. Although it’s almost midnight, traffic is brutal. After Nate’s call, I decided to wait, figuring the roads would be clear, but, stupidly, didn’t factor in construction. So now I’m stuck in a long line of cars, unable to move, with nothing to do except agonize over Billy.
Diana Holly has been angry before, but this time she sounds unhinged. I feel a little unhinged myself, frankly. For me, going home is fraught. When I’m there, I not only have to deal with my family’s disappointment, I also have to ward off drama with my ex-boyfriend, Marcus, who can sense when I’m vulnerable. Managing both at the same time is exhausting.
So my nerves were jangled even before I pulled out of the parking lot, but this stop-and-go traffic is sending me over the edge. My foot hovers on the gas, and I’m aching to gun the engine and take off.
Let me stress one thing about Billy. My brother is a fighter. He’s overcome more challenges than anyone I know. When he was born, he was so small and sickly, no one thought he’d survive. He was slow to roll over, late to walk, and unable, or unwilling, to talk. When he finally did, he stammered so severely, he was unintelligible. By kindergarten, Billy had undergone a series of surgeries to repair his heart. Between his lousy health and stutter, elementary school was torture, and he kept falling behind. But with help from speech therapists and tutors, he caught up to his peers and eventually surpassed them. Children who stutter, particularly boys, often excel later in life. King George VI and James Earl Jones are great examples of this. So is my brother. At twenty-two, his repetitions （disfluencies, they’re called） are infrequent, and he’s mastered strategies for heading them off. Still, his impediment is a wily beast, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Certain words trip him up; and in moments of high stress, he’ll struggle to say simple sentences. It’s why his arrest, however bogus, is so terrifying. Like Nate said, if Billy is scared, he can’t defend himself.
Nate calls again. Seeing his name, I feel a weight press down on my neck and shoulders. We’ve already spoken several times, most recently an hour ago. He caught me just as I zipped up my bag. His timing is impeccable, as if he’s tracking my every move. There’s a fine line, I’ve come to realize, between loving someone and suffocating her.
A few minutes later, feeling restless and twitchy, I call him back. “I’m on the other line,” he says brusquely, like I’m the one stalking him. “It’s about Billy.”
“You told me not to tell anyone.”
“These are people I trust.”
I’m skeptical of Nate’s sources the same way I’m skeptical of Nate. My brother has a wealthy boy’s overconfidence, so he often misses the nuances in a conversation. The next time he calls, for instance, he tells me Billy won’t actually be home tonight. “The Bowtie does know a few judges in New Jersey, but they can’t release Billy.”