On the sidewalk, a stranger in a Mets cap sidled up to him. “Lawrence Quinn? I’m Raffi Alexander with PXN News New York—”
“No comment.” Lawrence turned back toward home.
“I’m on your side. What they’re doing to your boy is unconscionable.”
“No comment.”
“We all see what’s happening, Lawrence. Our sons are in the crosshairs. Every male over age twelve has a target on his back. Billy lost his future over a false accusation! Lawrence, what happened to innocent before proven guilty?”
Hearing this, Lawrence slowed down. “Thank you—what’s your name? Raffi?” He extended his hand. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”
“No apologies. Reporters are ruthless. Your restraint is impressive, Lawrence. If it was my family, I’d be shouting in the streets.”
Flattered, Lawrence got excited; finally, someone saw how awful this experience has been, how hard it is to keep quiet. “Not all reporters are ruthless, Raffi. Most just want the story, which I can appreciate. As you may know, I was a media consultant for years, and have great respect for the news. But the reporters who spread lies? Who serve as judge, jury, and executioner? I’d love to give those guys a piece of my mind. Where does this end, Raffi?”
“Great question.” Raffi raised his camera. “Quick quote? If you could appeal to the press’s better nature, what would you tell them?”
“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Briefly, please. You’re in a position to make a difference, Lawrence. Unlike most men, you’re eloquent and persuasive. Lots of fathers and sons are suffering. Can you imagine how just a few words from a man like you will help? Please, Lawrence?”
And just like I had, Lawrence spoke up. “To members of the news media, I respect your profession, but I want you to understand that a boy’s future is at stake.” Making his plea for restraint, his smile was wistful. “My son is petrified. He’s just a kid, only twenty-two. I implore you to reserve judgment until all the facts are out and the truth becomes clear. You’ll see that this is a case of anger and revenge. A vindictive, irrational woman is bitter a brief affair has ended, and she’s retaliating by destroying my son’s future.”
So.
The press exploded. As soon as Raffi Alexander uploaded the clip, Lawrence’s quote was shared, reposted, and retweeted 1.1 million times. “Dad went viral,” Nate says. “The guy’s a fucking meme. He may have screwed Billy beyond repair.”
After hanging up with Nate, I call Lawrence, who feels awful, of course. He’s desperate to make another statement, but DeFiore forbade it.
“Henceforth,” Lawrence says, quoting DeFiore, “all communication from the Lawrence Quinns to the outside world is shut down. Peter also ordered us to stay out of sight. Well, not you, Cassie, since you’re never here anyway.”
“I’ll come home,” I offer, ignoring his dig. “Nate and Billy’s birthdays are next week. I want to celebrate with everyone. Triple-cakes. Triple-parties. Three Musketeers.”
“It’s okay. No one is feeling celebratory these days.”
“Tell her she doesn’t need to come home,” I hear Nate say. “But she should send gifts.”
“Speak soon,” Lawrence tells me. “Love you, kiddo.”
*
Marcus’s calls have become more frequent. Always in the dead of night. Always when I’m sleeping. “I can’t stand this. I can’t stand that you left.” He’s crying, which thrills and disgusts me. To give in and go back is slow suicide. He has a wife, three kids, two houses, a job, all of which he’s devoted to. “Please, Cassie, come back.”
I hang up. Trailing my fingers along my arm, I imagine they’re Marcus’s, and relive the first time he touched me. Alone in bed, I feel sad and sorry. I want to cry but refuse.
24
ON SUNDAY MORNING, WHEN THE DOORMAN CALLS TO ANNOUNCE a guest, I freak out. It’s Marcus. He drove all the way from New York! Should I let him in? Pretend I’m not home? If I open that door, there’s no telling what might—
“It’s okay,” I say. My heart is pounding. “Send him up.”
“It’s a woman.” He pauses to get her name. “Eleanor Quinn?”
Eleanor? Eleanor has never visited New Haven, not since I moved. “You sure?”
There’s a pause. “She said, ‘Yes, Cassandra, he’s sure.’”
“I need another minute.” I’m a whirling dervish, grabbing towels off chairs, scooping clothes from the floor. Although I never told Eleanor about Marcus, I feel sure she’s here to talk about him. I don’t know why I think this, but I do. A married man, Cassandra? A man who offers nothing but lies? Who betrays his family? I raised you better than this.
She knocks as I pull on shorts. Opening the door, I give her a smile. “Eleanor, this is a surprise.” Today, she’s channeling Jackie Onassis fleeing the paparazzi. She’s wearing oversized black sunglasses, rich red lipstick, and a scarf wrapped around her head. She looks ludicrous.
“A fun surprise, I hope.” She holds up a brown bag. “Double espresso. Your favorite.”
“Fun!” I’m giddy with worry.
She leans forward but not to hug me. Instead, she pats my back three times. That’s as far as she’ll go. When I was a child, she zipped up my coat, smoothed down my hair, and patted me three times—one, two, three. Firm yet kind, just enough to make me ache for more.
“It’s nice to see you,” I say.
“And you, my dear. It’s been far too long.”
“Eleanor, I was home a month ago.”
When she takes off her glasses, I note her eyes, red-rimmed and cloudy. Otherwise, she’s styled to perfection—perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect makeup, perfect everything.
She gives me a onceover, and I feel the ground shift under my feet. I love Eleanor, so in my descriptions to Haggerty, I softened her. She’s never been cruel or intentionally hurtful to me, but she’s exacting, brittle. From the day I moved in, Eleanor has curated my appearance with high-minded precision. Hair, skin, nails, clothes, weight, the way I walk, the way I talk, the list goes on. For most of my childhood, I was so skinny, I looked like one of my brothers. But when I was twelve, my body erupted, like a dirty bomb defiling everything within a fifty-mile radius. Eleanor doubled down in response. Modesty was paramount, desire distasteful, and basic human urges—eating, drinking, fucking—suppressed. Cover yourself, Cassie. Keep yourself in check, Cassie. Be pretty, be smart; be good. For Christ’s sake, Cassie, be anything but what you are. I rebelled, parading through the house in a skimpy tank top and tiny boxers. Hey, Eleanor, check me out.
“Well, don’t you look casual?” she says.
I’m wearing ripped denim shorts and a T-shirt. I’m barefaced, barefoot, and my hair is a tangled, knotty mess. Her point, though, is I’m not wearing a bra. “It’s summer, Eleanor.”
“Mind if I take a tour?” Without waiting for my response, she sweeps through the nearly empty rooms. “You’ve done wonders with the place, Cassandra. Who knew you had such style?”