No way, I think. I can’t tell Avery any of this. I realize my nails are dry. She’s watching me. “Let’s get a drink,” I say instead.
“Let’s.” She pauses. “Cassie, I—”
“Yes?” I look up. If I were a better person, I’d say, I’m sorry, Avery. I really screwed up. I lost my mind and here’s how it happened.
“Billy will be okay,” she says.
“Thanks, Avery. Your hair looks amazing. It’s perfectly you. I’ll text you,” I add, which I mean sincerely, but she’s already out the door and back on the street.
31
THE NEXT NIGHT, LAWRENCE AND I ARE IN THE KITCHEN, FORAGING for food. He’s eating Oreos, half a sleeve, one at a time. Seeing Avery has put me in a foul mood I can’t shake. But Lawrence is pissing me off too. Sometimes all it takes is the sound of him chewing to trigger my rage.
“Where’s Eleanor?” he asks, looking around. I nod at the terrace. “With Nate. They’re both brooding.”
“In the dark?” At the French doors, he watches her through the glass. “She’s smoking again,” he says absently, as if addressing a studio audience. “She promised to quit. Now look.”
“Everyone makes promises, Lawrence. Give her a break.” I take raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries out of the refrigerator and cut them into a fruit salad. He plucks a blueberry from my collection and puts it in his mouth.
I snatch my bowl out of his reach. “These are mine,” I say. “Get your own.”
“Oh wow, Princess, you’re selfish.”
He’s teasing but I won’t engage. “Maybe I am. What of it?” Behind me, he puts both his hands on my shoulders, requesting a truce. I shrug him off.
“Why are you mad at me?” he asks. “What did I do?”
“I’m not mad. I’m not anything. I just think you’re wrong about Billy.”
“I got that memo, Cassie. Your opinion has been registered with the committee. But I’m closer to the case than you are. I speak to Peter every day. Not for nothing, but you’ve been out of town all summer.”
Lawrence digs two fingers into my bowl, scoops out more berries, and slides the juicy clump into his mouth. Grinning, he shows off stained lips and teeth.
I don’t laugh. He’s right: I am angry. I’m infuriated. My anger may be disproportionate to the crime, but it feels righteous. “Lawrence, gross! You’re repulsive.”
Repulsive. The word distracts me. When I was a child, if a word was multisyllabic and sounded grown-up, I repeated it incessantly. He’s repulsive. The word reminds me of something, a movie? A picture? An image seeps in, a flicker of light from below a closed door. A man and a woman on a bed. The woman’s legs are open. Repulsive. The man is standing above her, holding his—He’s so repulsive. My skin twitches. I blink.
“Jesus.” Lawrence’s eyes widen, and I can tell I’ve hurt him. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Stop asking me that!” Fury, erupting as tears, stings my eyes.
“Cassandra.” His voice is strict, paternal. “You’re in a bad mood. That’s clear. But don’t take it out on me. We disagree about the trial. It’s not the end of the world. You’re not a child anymore, Cassie. That girl is gone. You can’t punish me for not giving you what you want. Those days are over.”
A surge of white noise fills my head. My heart starts to race. I lose feeling in my fingers and toes. I know this is true, of course this is true, but when I’m here, in this house, time collapses. I’m thrown back to the past in the present tense; there’s no before and no after.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“You’ve matured.” Lawrence doesn’t realize I’ve left, that I’m split, that I am twenty-three and sixteen, adult and child, woman and girl. “You’ve grown up. Act like it.”
Act like it, act like it echoes in my ears. “What?” I ask, not because I didn’t hear, but because I need him to explain.
“You can’t treat me like shit,” Lawrence says slowly like I’m an idiot.
“I’m not!” I’ll treat you however the fuck I want, I think. “I’m just living my life—at least I’m trying to. But every five minutes, I get called back here. So I race home. Every fucking time. It’s like I’m not a real person; I’m just a doll you can manipulate any way you want.”
My anger centers me. My pulse slows. I’m able to breathe. I return to the now, the real now, as the past now recedes.
Back in the kitchen, my self clicks into place, reassembled. I glance out the French doors. On the terrace, Eleanor and Nate are sitting side by side. He’s smoking too. In the near darkness, plumes of smoke rise into the air then disappear. Sprawled in his chair, Nate is gesturing emphatically, as if making a point. The tip of his cigarette glows. Next to him, Eleanor’s spine is straight, and her ankles are crossed. Seeing her so self-possessed, I feel a crush of sorrow for Lawrence. He seems lost and alone. Cast out. I can’t remember the last time the family turned against him. In fact, I don’t think I ever have.
I resolve to be nicer. He’s just trying to keep his son safe. “You’re right,” I say gently. “That was mean. I’m sorry. Here.” I push the bowl of berries across the counter. “There’s enough for you.”
*
On Wednesday morning, the valet brings my car around. I’ve been home less than a week, but I’ve reached my limit. I’m heading back to New Haven. Classes start after Labor Day, I told my parents, and I need to get ready. They balked, and rightly so. It doesn’t take three weeks to prepare. So, I countered with two visits: for my birthday on August 20 and for one meeting of their choosing with DeFiore. Deal, we agreed.
I’m about to slide into the driver’s seat when I notice Anton and Joey huddled with a third man under the porte cochère. I wouldn’t think twice, except there’s something familiar about the man’s threadbare jacket and the way he slouches forward, as if to seem shorter. When he turns sideways, I see his profile and almost pass out. It’s Greg Haggerty, the fucking detective.
I get into my car, but Haggerty has already spotted me and is speed-walking over. “Ms. Quinn,” he says grandly, grabbing my door before I can close it. “We meet again.”
“What the fuck? Are you following me?”
“What are you gonna do?” He chuckles. “Call the cops?” His face is flushed from the heat, his thin hair pasted to his scalp. Seeing this reminds me of his unannounced appearance in June, our two-hour conversation, his probing questions.
“Seriously,” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as uneasy as I feel. “Why are you at my parents’ house?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to see you. Just catching up with old friends.” He waves toward the door, where Anton and Joey were standing. They’re both gone.
“What could you possibly want from them?” I try to swallow, but my throat’s dry as dust. I think about that night in the Bronx. The bar, shadowy inside, neither dark nor light. Fizzy laughter. Fishnet stockings. Garish red lipstick on a starched white collar. Idiots, me and Marcus. It’s like we were trying to get caught.