“What do you mean by intimate?”
“It’s just a word. Doesn’t mean anything. Look, I can see you’re tired. Let’s pick this up another time.”
“Don’t tell me I’m tired,” I say wearily. “It’s patronizing.”
“Not intentional, Ms. Quinn. I’m just asking if you prefer I come back.”
“I didn’t want you here in the first fucking place, Officer.”
“Detective.”
“Detective. Can I call you Greg?”
“Detective works, thanks.”
Detective Gregory Haggerty is skinny and angular with an oversized Adam’s apple and hawkish nose; a long, lean Ichabod Crane wearing filmy glasses and yesterday’s suit. His rumpled shirt and muddy shoes make him look inept. But his eyes give him away. Hard, black, and set deep in his skull, they drill into me, make me sweat and squirm in my chair.
“You win.” Exhaling, Haggerty feigns relief. “It’s me. I’m the one who needs a break.”
“That’s just as patronizing,” I tell him.
“Again, not intentional, Ms. Quinn.”
I feel a spike of rage that blooms into revulsion. I hate Gregory Haggerty, I think. I want him out of my apartment. Asserting these simple, declarative statements boosts my confidence, returns me to solid ground. “Again, call me Cassie.” I smile big. “We’re friends now, right?”
He’s not charmed in the slightest. Men with no sense of humor are exhausting; this guy is soul-killing.
“Can I get you more water?” he asks, as if our roles have reversed, and we’re in his apartment, not mine.
I lift my glass, which is empty. I’m so thirsty I can hear my lips pull apart when I speak. “All set,” I say. To accept anything from him is to show weakness.
“Why don’t you relax while I step out and make a few calls?” Haggerty tilts forward, speaks into his phone. “It’s ten a.m. on Wednesday, June fourteenth. This concludes Part One of my interview with Cassandra Elisabeth Forrester-Quinn.”
He clicks a button, closes a folder, and stands up, all in one motion. He seems pleased with himself. This is a bad sign. Haggerty’s confidence can mean only one thing: at some point during my epic story, I gave myself away.
Part Two
Investigation
20
I’M SERIOUS. THE HEAT IS DEADLY. OUTSIDE, IT’S, LIKE, A HUNDRED and ten degrees, and the sun has baked the brick building since dawn. With the windows closed, my living room feels like the core of a furnace. When Haggerty showed up, face flushed, hair damp, I considered turning on the air-conditioning. But then decided no, let’s not. This guy wants to talk so badly, let him shrivel up in this hotbox. Let him walk out of here a desiccated husk.
In the past two hours, I’ve done most of the talking. I started with Nate’s call in March and recounted all the high points, including meeting DeFiore, Billy’s first appearance, his arraignment, and what happened next. After that, I told him, I lost the thread. Haggerty kept pace, asking questions, follow-up questions, and more follow-up questions. And yet, he never mentioned the heat, not once. Even when his grimy sweat dribbled down his face and stained his collar, he didn’t flinch. So, points to him for grit and endurance. Not that I plan to give up. Haggerty may have won the battle, but our war rages on.
While he’s in the hall, I steal into my bathroom and suck two hits off a joint. Not enough to lose my wits, but enough to feel faraway and chitchatty; enough to retrace my steps, fix any loose ends, and close up shop.
Haggerty’s primary questions were about Billy, obviously. “Tell me a story,” he said, just like my brothers at Hawkins Cove. “I’m open to anything.”
I hadn’t forgotten DeFiore’s instructions to keep quiet: Do not talk to anyone without a lawyer present. But I agreed to talk for two reasons. The first is personal. I wanted Haggerty to see my family’s complexity, our humanity, the day-to-day reality of our lives. The world has appalling misconceptions about the rich. But we’re no different from people with less money, or no money, not in the ways that matter. We fear our mothers’ disapproval. Our fathers mortify us. We forget their birthdays. Our impulsive decisions disappoint them. We form alliances, hold grudges. We behave childishly, indefensibly. But just as we reach the point of no return, there is kindness, forgiveness, flashes of grace. We are normal, everyday people; wealthy, sure; but otherwise just like anyone else, just like him.
If you want to know us so intimately, Detective, I told him, pull up a chair.
The other reason I spoke up is tactical. Team Billy is at an impasse. Lawrence has decided, unequivocally, that the risk of losing is too great; he and DeFiore are pushing Billy to take a plea. Eleanor and Nate refuse; they want to go to trial. Billy is too depressed to offer a meaningful opinion. And while I agree with Eleanor and Nate, no one cares what I think, not since I left town, essentially abandoning my family in their time of need. With Eleanor and Lawrence at odds, and questioning DeFiore’s every move, we don’t have a coherent defense. Time is ticking. If Billy takes the plea, he’ll end up in prison. If Billy goes to trial and loses, he’ll end up in prison. What could I do? What would anyone do?
DeFiore will be livid, but once I explain, he’ll get over it. He may even thank me. Someone had to advocate for Billy. So I gave Haggerty what he asked for, and set the record straight. Knowing he’d check and double-check, I stuck to the truth, even when it made us look bad. I’m not a lawyer, but I am a sister. I know my brother better than he knows himself. Who else but me can create a portrait of Billy that will convince a jury of his innocence? The story is so simple it’s stupid: Billy suffered. Billy stuttered. Billy triumphed. Billy has a heart of gold. Billy was an easy mark. Billy fell in love. Billy gave and gave. Billy got burned. Billy got railroaded. Not guilty, Your Honor.
I hear the front door open. “One more minute, Ms. Quinn,” Haggerty calls out.
“It’s Cassie,” I call back. “And no rush.” Like I said, fuck you, Haggerty.
It feels good to assert my independence, to tell the truth. I was smart to leave New York. New Haven brings out my clear, steady self. The fighter. The girl that won’t quit. The self that disappears when I’m home, with my family.
I brush my teeth, so I won’t reek. Unlike Billy and Nate, I’m old school when it comes to weed. I prefer the harsh burn of smoke, like my lungs are on fire.
My phone dings with a text. It’s Marcus, killing my mood: Can’t stop thinking about you. Remember that first kiss in the park? On the bench? The ducks? Christ, I wish you were here. xx
Oh yeah, fuck you, too, Marcus.
*
The first time Haggerty contacted me was back in late April, a few weeks after Billy’s arraignment. He said he was a cop, but DeFiore never mentioned his name, so I didn’t call back. Soon he was texting me like a possessive boyfriend, so I did some digging. Turned out Haggerty is from Manhattan, a detective in the 16th Precinct, Special Victims Unit. （It’s real? Who knew?） Knowing he was bad news, I told myself to stay away. And I did, for months—until today, when the doorman announced that a cop was here. Again, points to Haggerty for tenacity and strategic maneuvering.