For the next three weeks, the five of us hunker down at home. Outside, reporters and paparazzi converge on the street, angling for pictures, sound bites, any bits of news. We hire a security detail, including a bodyguard for Billy. Soon, I’m climbing the walls. Anton sneaks me down to the parking lot in the super-secret staff elevator, and I escape to New Haven for a few days. My apartment is small: two bedrooms, one bathroom, and no furniture to speak of. But it’s private, quiet, and entirely my own. While I’m there, I make up missed exams, turn in late assignments, and try to pretend everything is fine, fine, fine. Before I leave, I drop off keys for the doorman, who’s promised to pick up my mail. “I’ll be back,” I assure him and reassure myself. “I still live here.”
As I’m catching up at school, Eleanor, Lawrence, and Nate are questioned by the police, individually then together. DeFiore and Felicia accompany them to deflect questions and guide their responses. When I ask Lawrence over FaceTime if I should reach out to the police, too, he looks at me like I’m demented. “Why would you do that?” he asks. “Never offer unsolicited information.”
While I’m away, Nate calls with updates. DeFiore is working hard to make a deal, but so far, no dice. The DA won’t agree to any terms unless they include a state prison stint and sex offender registration. We won’t agree to any terms but “not guilty.” On this subject, at least, we’re all united as a family, certain of Billy’s innocence and ready to fight as long as it takes. Privately, Lawrence continues to protest a trial, but publicly he’s a man on a mission. He’s in charge, and Nate—who’s taken a leave from Bessemer—is his deputy. They speak with DeFiore’s team several times a day, follow up on research, and play out scenarios. Eleanor is doing her part to shore up support. “I’m so grateful you reached out,” she says on the phone. “Yes, it’s shocking. Yes, the girl is terribly damaged. Yes, we should get together. Yes, this horrible experience will end very soon.”
*
Suddenly I see cops everywhere. Driving back from New Haven, I stop at a bodega near Columbia. A gauntlet of police is blocking the door. Unable to find a spot, I double-park by a hydrant. I expect one of them to bark move your car! But they’re engrossed in each other, drinking coffee and laughing, and I move through the huddle like a ghost.
In the back, I spot a familiar figure. He’s turned away, scanning the glass cases. But I recognize Powell Porter’s hulking shoulders and meaty neck. He’s one of Nate’s oldest friends.
“How about Heineken?” Powell is asking his date, whose face I can’t see. From behind, swaddled in a puffy coat, she looks tiny. Her shoulder-length blond hair is magnificent, the perfect blend of honey highlights and gold lowlights. “I’ll get you whatever you want,” he adds, “as long as it’s Heineken,” then laughs at his own joke.
The girl is talking on the phone. Hearing her voice, I realize it’s Avery, Avery Walker. My former best friend.
Powell and Avery are infinitely unimportant to me. Yet running into them, unexpectedly and ill-prepared, throws me back to high school as if no time has elapsed. I try to slip out of the store, but it’s too late. “Cassie? Hey, Cassandra Quinn—wait up!” I swivel around. “Powell?” I sound surprised and delighted to see him. “Oh my God!” Thankfully, Avery is still in the back, on her phone.
Powell, like all of Nate’s friends, is a well-groomed social animal with excellent posture. He has ice-blue eyes, tight blond curls, and a chiseled jaw. His features, which were adorable on a small boy, give him a hard edge as a man. “This is crazy!” he says. “I just spoke to Nate. He’s been keeping me up to date on Billy. I still can’t fucking believe it.”
The Porters and the Quinns have been intertwined for as long as I can remember. Powell’s father, McClain, is part of the city’s political machinery. Briefly, he and Lawrence worked together; and McClain still checks in from time to time. After making a bundle in real estate, McClain ran for comptroller and served two successful terms. Now, there’s talk he’ll be the next mayor. New Yorkers adore dashing men-about-town, though McClain settled down a while ago with a woman who helped raise his sons. Powell’s brother Deacon is Billy’s age, and they’re friends, but not nearly as close as Powell and Nate. The older boys met in Little League, and then Powell angled his way into Groton, where they both played football. Unlike Nate, Powell was a genuine star with a massive frame built for destruction. In high school, he tried to fuck me, but I didn’t take it personally. Powell is one of those guys who tries to fuck everyone.
“Nate keeps you posted on Billy?”
“Of course he does. He tells me everything, Cassidy Cakes. He’s like a fucking girl that way.”
Of course, he tells me, tells me, tells me starts to echo. A whoosh of blood fills my ears, blocking out sound. My throat closes up. My heart races. The small, cramped store gets smaller and more cramped until it’s a box. Trapped in here, I can’t breathe.
“The girl?” Powell’s voice comes from far away. “Diana? She’s lying. Billy’s a gentle soul. I don’t say that about anyone. We had horny fuckers in our crew. Dash Lovell, Brody Leighton. Christ, I once saw Aiden Ambrose on top of—You know what? Doesn’t matter. But Billy? No way. I told Nate to call my dad. He’ll help however he can.”
Powell Porter is the worst kind of guy: feral masked as submissive. He pretends to give a shit when, really, you’re just a means to an end. In grade school, Powell made fun of Billy’s stutter （“B-b-b-b-illy”）。 When Nate found out, he clocked Powell so hard, he shattered his nose. Powell apologized, and he and Nate stayed friends. Nate said he wanted to keep the peace, or for the greater good; I can’t remember how he spun it. But like civilized men, they shook hands and moved on.
“Nothing this girl says will stick.” Powell’s eyes are glassy, and I realize he’s stoned. “They dated for six months; she was his girlfriend ! Elmo will be fine, Cass.”
“Don’t call him that.” Using my nickname is crossing a line; it’s like calling Billy a retard—which Powell also did, by the way.
At the register, Powell is behind me, so close he steps on my heels. I point to Marlboros and pull out a fifty. “Two packs, actually,” I tell the guy.
Powell’s face twists. “You’re smoking? That’s so gross.” This from a guy who I’ve seen caked in mud, gulping grain alcohol out of a cleat. “Hey, Ave! Where are you? Look who it is!”
As I watch Avery approach, the store takes on a movie-set quality, realistic but artificial. My head is spinning; and I view the next scene through a scrim. I’m rooted in place, but my mind detaches while the self that remains is anesthetized. At the same time, my other senses sharpen; sounds are richer, smells more pungent. I have the sensation of falling off my own feet.
“Cassandra,” she says, sounding like she’s speaking through a long, hollow tube. She looks very stoned too. “I’m a blonde now.”
“You are very blond,” I agree.