I realize something else. Even more than winning, DeFiore loves the game—shuffling players, pitting us against each other, tossing off ideas just to watch us react. However shrewd and manipulative I imagined he was, he’s likely twice that.
The way DeFiore’s eyes shine with excitement disgusts me. At the same time, I want him to use every trick he knows to grind Anderson into pulp. And there’s my answer: I won’t do anything for Diana. None of us will. We are complicit. We are responsible. We carry her like we carry our other crimes. The show must go on.
“Great, Peter,” Lawrence says. “You’ve not only slandered us, you’ve also jeopardized the verdict. Really fucking great.”
“The girl gave a convincing testimony. The jury bought every word. People were tearing up. We didn’t have a guaranteed win. So, I took a calculated risk. You’ll thank me later.” He pauses. “Okay, moving on. Lar, you’re up after lunch. I’ll run out the clock till five. Over the weekend, Cassie and Billy will rehearse. Monday, they’ll testify. Tuesday, closing arguments. Wednesday, verdict.” He points to Billy. “Then you’re home free.”
“Unless I go to prison.”
DeFiore lifts his head. “Stay positive, my boy. Ain’t over till it’s over.” Turning, he heads into the hall, and then he trills like a fat lady, singing.
54
“LAWRENCE? YOU OKAY?” I’VE BARELY SPOKEN TODAY. MY words are clotted in my throat. I take a sip of water but can’t swallow. The water sits in my mouth until I’m gagging.
He mumbles something I can’t hear.
“Lawrence?”
We’re alone in the conference room, still seated on opposite sides of the table. Concerned about Eleanor, Nate and Billy went to find her before the trial resumes. Walking out, Billy fired off one parting shot. “This is all your fault.” Though he was looking at Lawrence, he was talking to me. “It’s insane” was the most I could muster, shaking my head. “Absolutely insane.” But I knew what he meant. It is my fault. For the first time in forever, my brother and I were actually in agreement.
The welt right above Lawrence’s eye is livid. A knot has risen under the skin. Ignoring it, he taps on his phone, furiously, like he’s signaling Morse code. He’s oblivious to his head, to his surroundings, to me.
“Lawrence?” It comes out as a whisper. “There’s another option.”
He doesn’t look up from his screen. “What kind of option?”
“We could admit we love each other. I mean, we’re consenting adults.” Do I even want this? I’ve wanted it for so long. And I want Lawrence to want it. I’m just not sure about myself anymore. Still, I keep going. “What if we just say yes, it’s true?”
An extended pause. “We could, kiddo. We certainly could do that.” He rakes his hand through his hair, one of his stalling tactics. Another rake, then another. A loose strand snags on his wedding band. “Although . . .” He searches the ceiling. “Don’t you think it’s better for Billy if we wait? Until after the trial? Why give the other side more ammunition?”
“I don’t want to wait. I don’t,” I say. To state this is to humiliate myself; still, I crave worse. “It’s all gonna come out anyway. Haggerty knows. The cop. That’s why he keeps calling. He knows about us. He may have people who will testify. Against you.” I don’t not want it. But is that the same as wanting it?
Shock registers in Lawrence’s eyes. “You told him? Cassie, you promised not to talk to him again.”
“I didn’t tell him anything. He told me.” My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised Lawrence can’t hear it. It’s knocking in my ears, louder and louder.
“It doesn’t matter. You were seventeen. It only happened once. I drank too much. It was a moment of weakness. Recklessness. Irrationality.”
“I was sixteen, Lawrence.” You weren’t reckless or irrational, I want to say. You were happy. We both were. “I was a girl.”
“You were of age. That’s the story. If that’s the story it doesn’t matter. Besides, he needs you to build a case, right?” Lawrence studies the wall as he speaks. His fingers play a silent piano on the conference room table. “Without you, he has nothing.”
Like I said, I know Lawrence, intimately; I know every line, every muscle, every freckle. I’ve traced the birthmark on his inner thigh with my tongue. So I know he’s calculating not just his next move but his fifth, tenth, fifteenth move down the line. Moves that may or may not bring us to the forever he promised me.
I can’t risk it. I’m too scared. “You’re right,” I say. I pull my concealer out of my bag. “Without me, Haggerty has nothing.” I shift my body closer.
Lawrence’s head swivels toward the door, as if remembering where we are.
“No one is out there,” I assure him, dabbing makeup on his skin. I press my lips to his hair. “You’re mine, Lawrence. My sweetheart. No one knows you the way I do. No one knows what you like. I’ll do anything you want. A sexy dance, another woman, two men—your call.” I lick his earlobe, suck it until he shivers. “I’ll drain your cock dry in one go.”
He moves away. “Cassie, come on.” But he’s suppressing a grin, an all-boy, sneaky, mischievous one. He’s hard as a rock.
Remember this, I tell myself. He’s a dirty dog you can train.
“We had a plan, Sweet Girl. Just a few more days.” Under the table, his hand strokes his crotch. Head back, eyelids fluttering, he’s lost. “After that, it’s you and me.” Then, as if to remind himself, he adds, “I promise.”
Remember, remember becomes a mantra, a necessary directive, my key to survival. I’m trying, I’m trying, but the past is elusive and the now is slippery. I’m not sure what’s true anymore. What rights do I have here? What is mine to demand?
Years ago, in the hospital, the therapist explained that my feelings for men, for Marcus, were confused and confusing. Somewhere along the way my wires got crossed then shorted out. I didn’t understand at sixteen, but now I think I do. All this time, I’ve been confusing pity with desire, gratitude with devotion, obligation with passion. But even if pity and gratitude are shitty reasons to hang on, they’re still reasons. They’re my reasons. Besides, why do I need reasons in the first place? Why does it matter? You can’t choose who you love. Love chooses you.
“Oh shit.” Realizing we’re late, Lawrence regains his composure. “I’m sorry, Cassie. We have to wait. Just a little while longer.” He stands up, adjusts his trousers. “Billy is my son.”
“What am I?”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s your son. What am I?”
Instead of replying, he leans over. I relax for a kiss. Instead, he pats my shoulder. “I tried to protect you. Back in March, I begged you to stay away from the trial. You can’t deny that. Cass, nothing here is real. It’s a play, a performance. We’re acting out parts in a prewritten script. Don’t forget what you know. What we have. What we are to each other. Christ, kid—that thing with your tongue? I practically came in my chair.”