*
Our culture is obsessed with predators. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been warned about older men who groom young girls for sex. The details change, but never the message: girls are weak and foolish; men are dangerous and canny. Predators are everywhere.
Are there really that many dumb girls? That many violent men? （I don’t know the answer; I’m simply posing the questions.）
A predator is careful about his selection; out of a hundred girls, he’ll choose one. But it’s not as if the girl waits, passively, to be chosen. In her own way, she chooses him too. The man and the girl are familiar to each other; they share feelings they believe are uniquely theirs—strong urges, insatiable needs. Previously, these feelings were shameful, which is why the man is so relieved to find them in her. The girl is just grateful to be loved, to be seen. These feelings are their special language, their private means of communication.
Their relationship is symbiotic, a mutual experience. The man breaks down barriers, but the girl offers herself up. Each word, every gesture is calculated. So is the response. Can I get you a drink? Call you a cab? Walk you upstairs? Days pass, months. Can I touch you? Kiss you? Take off your bra? Touch your breasts? Pull down your pants? Occasionally, years. But the endgame is clear. Can I love you?
Yes, she says. Please.
I’m not suggesting predators don’t exist. But not every man is a predator and not every girl prey. Like any relationship, dynamics shift. Emotions wax and wane. But you can’t say every girl has no agency, that we’re all weak and foolish, that we don’t know our own minds. To deny me choice over my body is to deny me a self. To deny me a me.
My relationship with Lawrence Quinn evolves over years and more years. People have misconceptions about affairs between older men and young women. That they’re rooted in power and centered on sex is one. Older men push younger women into behavior they don’t want is another. But our relationship is rooted in trust and centered on love. Lawrence didn’t touch me until I was ready, despite how often I asked, how forcefully I pushed, all my ultimatums.
He loves to tease me about this: that I’m predator and he’s prey. “You picked me, Cassie,” he says in jest—in jest because he’s naked and splayed underneath me like Christ on the cross. “You picked, groomed, and broke me down. I had no choice. I had to say yes.”
“You had . . . you . . .” I’m panting. Bearing down, I fuck him harder. Sweat rolls off my skin. I lick salt from his lips. “You had . . . no choice . . .” He has no choice.
Afterward, flat on our backs and soaking in sunlight, we laugh and laugh at the absurdity.
46
I CAN’T SLEEP IN THIS HOTEL. ALONE IN MY BED, SEPARATED from Lawrence by a single wall, I ache with desire. My dreams, hallucinogenic and vivid, are Technicolor movies that I watch and experience simultaneously. They’re so immersive, I can’t be sure if they’re dreams or alternative lives. I work hard to decode the baroque symbolism and hidden messages, but nothing makes sense. All I know for sure is that we’re running out of time.
A few of my dreams feature Hawkins Cove. I’m with my brothers, who are in their twenties, but absorbed in childhood activities, like digging holes. In one, I leap over ragged rocks that are slick with blood. The water is threatening, dark red, viscous, and whirling with rage. Billy is there, too, taunting me by refusing to speak. I try to get his attention, but he backs away and then dives, headfirst, into the bloody water, as if over a cliff. Don’t leave me, I want to say, but my words are stuck. I wake up crying with my throat raw.
The night before the State rests, it’s me and Billy again in my dream. Only this time, I’m the one backing away; it’s me who’s about to fall. My mouth is filled with grime, pieces of garbage and dirt that I scrape off my teeth in handfuls. Billy is holding my T-shirt, but not tightly enough, so I lose my footing. I suspect he pushed me. I don’t want to believe this even as I know it’s true. Meanwhile, I’m screaming Elmo, stop, but my mouth is too full for him to hear me. Besides, it’s too late. My brother has already turned away, and I’m spiraling in midair.
*
On Thursday morning, the prosecution presents its final witness. Anderson announces her name in a game-show baritone. “The State calls Diana Angelina Holly.”
Excitement ripples through the gallery. She’s here? Heads swivel to Anderson, over to DeFiore, back to Anderson. Where? Where is she? Will we see her on video or in person?
“Your Honor,” Anderson says. “I beg the Court’s indulgence for another minute.” Apparently, his celebrity witness is MIA, because he’s gesturing to Fleming, who’s bent over her phone, texting like mad. “Excuse me for a second,” she says to McKay, pocketing her device as she speed-walks out. “I’ll be right back.”
While we wait, Anderson plods over to the defense table, where he blocks the jury’s view of Billy, as if building suspense. Since day one, DeFiore has reinforced the need for Billy to stay calm, especially when Diana is nearby. “The jury wants you to go ballistic. They want to see you melt down. If you do, it makes their job easier. I am begging you, Billy. Keep your cool, no matter what anyone says to you or about you.”
“Be a Sphinx,” Felicia Drake added. “Do not react.”
Billy has followed these instructions to the letter. Day after day, he listens intently and takes notes. He looks so engrossed even I forget he’s medicated. Every morning as we leave the hotel, he swallows a high-grade sedative. If not for the pill, he’d tap his pencil, squirm in his chair, and shift back and forth. Today, when he leans back, he looks serene, if semi-comatose. He has the faintest grin on his lips. I’ve seen this smile before, during races, right before he makes one last push and snaps the tape. It’s Billy’s tell, the way he unconsciously signals he knows he’s about to win.
The door swings open. Diana Holly appears. Backlit by the mid-morning sun, she strolls down the aisle like a pageant queen, escorted by Fleming. The courtroom is still. We hear the rustle of gauzy fabric and the squeak of patent leather as Diana approaches the bailiff and raises her right hand.
At the defense table, my brother has come to life. Briefly, he turns to his mother. His eyes are open and crazed with terror. He’s jiggling his foot. His face is bleached of color. His victory smile has vanished.
*
“Thank you for joining us,” Anderson says gently. For the past two weeks, the DA has moved through his interviews with swift efficiency—staccato questions, in-and-out, boom, boom, boom. Now, with Diana, he is slow and obsequious. “You have no obligation to be in this courtroom. That you are is a testament to your bravery and integrity.”
Diana nods. In my memory, she was small and pushy, with a pixie bob, a greedy personality and nonstop flattery. But today, I don’t see any of this. Diana Holly is a pretty girl. Her brown hair has grown out and falls in waves that frame her face. One side is held back by a tortoiseshell clip. She has round eyes and full lashes. She’s softer and more ladylike than I remember. On the other hand, she’s wearing a fluffy sweater over a rose-colored dress, so maybe that’s why. Or because she’s not wearing makeup. Mostly, Diana looks pale, sad, and exhausted. I’m sure she is sad and exhausted, considering what she’s been through.