She started to stroke his penis. He was too far gone to stop. Her dress got hiked up. Billy recalls being inside her but not for how long because he was hit with a wave of nausea. He stood up and pulled down Diana’s dress—he distinctly remembers that she wasn’t wearing underwear. He turned and vomited, when he was suddenly tackled by what felt like a gang of men. He kept trying to get up, but they had him pinned. He threw up again, which made him dizzy, so he closed his eyes. Next thing he knew, the police were there.
“Did you talk to Diana during any of this?” Nate asks.
“No idea.”
“Did you think she blacked out?”
“Hell no.” On this point, Billy is adamant.
Nate and I put our arms around him. “We believe you, Billy,” we tell him. “She won’t get away with this.”
14
OUR HOUSE IN SOUTHAMPTON SITS ON A HUNDRED AND fifty acres. Along with a blueberry patch, heated pool, tennis courts, and boat dock, we have a private beach that’s surrounded by deep and dense woods. Large parts of the area are rough and isolated, so our parents forbid us from exploring. But with Nate in charge, we roamed far and wide. He was a genius at finding things. Under his direction, Billy and I dug for strangers’ castoffs, which we treated like buried treasure: loose playing cards told our fortunes, Scrabble tiles spelled out hidden messages, a set of keys opened imaginary doors.
Nate’s greatest discovery was a secret hideaway. Twenty yards past the dunes, close to the marshy shore, groups of trees cluster together to create hidey-holes perfectly sized for small children. When Nate stumbled on one of these shady spaces, he dubbed it Hawkins Cove in honor of Jim Hawkins from Treasure Island, a book he loved.
My brothers and I spent entire days at Hawkins Cove, which we called HQ. To reach the trees, we had to pass through thick reeds that grew as tall as our shoulders. Nate dreamed up complex missions where we snuck supplies （blankets, Doritos, a Magic 8 Ball） from enemy territory （house） past the DMZ （dunes） down to HQ. But our favorite game was my idea, one I’d stolen from Lawrence. We’d lie down and close our eyes. “Tell me a story, Cassie,” Nate would say. “Make it epic.” But where Lawrence offered family lore, I spun wild stories that starred three brave siblings who banded together to save the world.
Hawkins Cove was our secret. So was Epic Story. We played for years, probably longer than was age appropriate. Having secrets connected and comforted us, especially after Nate and Billy went to boarding school. （Had I not already lost one family, I would’ve gone too.） Even when we’re at odds, under the surface, we’re as entangled as any natural root system. Which is why, hours after we return from the park, I feel an urgent need to be with Nate. I wait until the house is quiet and then steal into his room.
My brother’s chest is massive, and as I burrow against him, I’m reminded that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a man’s arms around me. The room is pitch-black, except for a sliver of light that washes over his face. I adjust my breathing so that we inhale in unison, our chests rising and falling as if we share one set of lungs, a single beating heart.
“Tell me a story, Cassandra,” he whispers. “Make it epic.”
I pause for a moment. “This is Billy’s story,” I say quietly. “William Quinn is the smartest, most handsome boy ever. He meets Diana Holly, a dangerous witch disguised as a beautiful girl. Unaware of how cunning she is, he asks her out on a date—”
“Flash-forward. How does it end?”
“The jury is about to read the verdict when Nate and Cassie shout, ‘Billy Quinn is innocent!’ The case is dropped. Diana Holly gets punished. The Three Musketeers prevail.” I pause. “Plausible?”
“Christ, I hope so.” Nate touches my hair.
“How does the story really end?” My eyes are closed. “You tell me.”
“They go to the beach.” His voice is dreamy. “They run down to the edge and jump in the waves. Then they float out to sea, never to be heard from again.”
I picture myself at seven, eight, nine, a skinny kid in shorts. Scratched, scabby legs. Wind-tangled hair. Wonder Woman Band-Aids. As I start to doze off, I remember one afternoon before Nate left for Groton. We’re sitting, cross-legged, in the cove. Above us, the trees form a canopy to block out the hot sun. The air is cool and smells of salt. Nate is fourteen, I’m eleven, Billy is ten. Still young enough to believe in Hawkins Cove, to trust in its transformative properties. In two weeks, Nate will be gone. We’ll never see him except for breaks, holidays, and the occasional weekend.
“I d-d-don’t want to g-g-go,” Billy says, though he’s years away from boarding school himself.
“You’ll be okay,” Nate assures him. “I’ll be there.”
“Besides, Elmo,” I say, echoing Eleanor. “Groton is the best of the best, especially if you want to be a doctor. FDR went there. So did Teddy Roosevelt’s son.”
“They’re not d-d-d-doctors,” Billy points out.
“Will Elmo Quinn be a doctor?” Nate holds up our Magic 8 Ball. “All signs point to yes.”
I grab it from him. “Will Cassie fly planes like Amelia Earhart?” I’m enthralled by tragic, mysterious women. “Ask again later. Will Nate surf the Banzai Pipeline?”
“Without a doubt,” Nate says just as I read, “Without a doubt.” We crack up. “Jinx!”
I feel thoroughly, unconditionally happy. I loved Billy and Nate more than I ever loved anyone, even Rachel, my biological mother. At one time, I thought about her constantly, but by that point, she’d been dead for years, and existed only as a few faded pictures and a couple of songs she hummed under her breath. One was a Christian hymn that her own mother, a religious woman, sang to her. All things bright and beautiful All creatures great and small All things wise and wonderful / The Lord God made them all.
“I’ll tell you what happens,” I say to Nate now, lying next to him. “Billy will go to med school. I’ll fly supersonic jets. You’ll surf the Banzai Pipeline. We’ll live happily ever after.” I pause. “Nate? You up?” Beside me, my brother’s breathing is slow and even. “Just wait, Nathaniel,” I whisper. “It will be so beautiful.”
15
THURSDAY AFTERNOON WE’RE IN DOWNTOWN PRINCETON. The leafy trees, storefronts, and wide sidewalks remind me of New Haven, which feels like a place I visited once, years ago. It makes no sense—I haven’t even been gone a week. But I’m so caught up in Billy, my other life has receded; soon, I will barely remember it.
The offices of DeFiore & Associates, LLC are in a renovated Victorian. As we climb the front steps, the door swings open. “You made it!” DeFiore stands on the landing, wearing his same rumpled suit. “Welcome, welcome.”
He ushers us into the foyer, a sleek reception space with hardwood floors and Tiffany lamps. Behind that, there’s a plush library with built-in shelves, oversized couches, colorful pillows, and leafy plants. Floor-to-ceiling windows wash the room in natural light.
“I call this room my lounge-brary,” DeFiore says. “Nice, right?”