“And the butter?”
I passed Brian the butter. “Surveillance,” I finished. Then, “I think I have enough to make a claim.”
My father split his baked potato down the middle and let the steam pour out. “Which would be?”
“Negligent infliction of emotional distress against the Colorado Department of Corrections. Witnesses and bystanders can sue for emotional anguish if they witness something horrible. I’d say I qualify.”
My father raised his eyebrows.
“This all should have ended in Colorado. Two adults and a child are dead because of their negligence. When a girl in The House violates the organization’s standards, it’s my job to hold her accountable. Why would this be any different? Plus, a lawsuit gives me the opportunity to request the evidence that the prison guard told me about, anything that could connect The Defendant to crimes in other states. There are families who are desperate for answers about what happened to their loved ones. I could help give them some solace.” I stopped. Poked at the verdant pile of spinach on my plate. Waited to hear what my father thought.
“That’s a tough case to win,” he said at last. “A lot of steps to prove.”
Brian nodded in vehement agreement. He was eating only the charred perimeter of the meat, leaving behind a pink puck at the center. I knew he preferred his well-done. “That’s what I said too,” he said pompously.
I turned to him, my patience whittled down to something speared and dangerous. “Actually, that’s not what you said at all. You said to sit back and let the police do their job, because they’ve done such crack detective work up until now. Oh, and what else? That Tina had brainwashed me.”
“Someone managed to brainwash Pamela Schumacher?” My father forked a piece of steak into his mouth with a laugh. He’d believe that when he saw it.
Brian went from pink to a scalding red. “Just so you are aware, sir—”
“Bill.”
“Bill, sir. I’m just a little concerned about how much interest this woman has taken in your daughter. She was in a lesbian relationship with one of the victims. Supposed victims, that is.”
My father glanced between Brian and me, chewing. “Are you in a lesbian relationship with this woman, Pamela?”
“No, Dad,” I said. “I’m not.”
“Then I’m not concerned. You know what does concern me, Brian?”
Brian stared at him insolently.
“That is the best cut of meat north of Fourteenth Street. Eat up.”
* * *
For some reason, I turned right out of the restaurant. Right was uptown, away from Penn Station. Brian trailed me in a stewing silence, unaware for the first few blocks. “Hey,” he said, pawing at my arm, trying to get me to stop. “We’re going the wrong way.”
But I wasn’t, I realized with razored clarity. I was planning to grab the crosstown bus at 66th Street, then an uptown train to 116th Street, where the sanctity of the Columbia campus waited for me.
“I want to go to Columbia,” I said, shaking him off me.
Brian peered up the street. “Isn’t that a long walk from here?”
“I mean for school,” I said. “Next year.” I turned and faced him. Pedestrians were barreling toward us like goats with their heads lowered, muttering obscenities when they were forced to weave around us. I put my palms on Brian’s chest, gently but firmly, and maneuvered us closer to the curb.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Brian said, all soft and supportive. “Let’s do our first year at Shorebird. Then we reapply to Columbia. They will see it as a commitment, to reapply, and maybe this time your father can put in a word for me too.”
I looked up at him, agog. “What are you talking about? Who would Dad put a word in with? He went to Rutgers.”
“Right, but…” Brian made a face, one that begged me not to make him say it.
“But what?”
“They know who he is.”
“Dad’s successful, sure, but this is New York. Trust me, he’s not on anyone’s radar.”
Brian smirked. “If you say so.”
I was filled with rampant loathing for him. “I have a four-point-two GPA. I’m the president of the top sorority on campus, and I’m one of three women congressional pages out of thirty. I scored in the ninety-fifth percentile on the admissions—”
“Jesus!” Brian shouted. “I know!”
I kept my voice calm. “Actually,” I said, “you don’t know. I made a point of not telling you my score. Because I didn’t want you to feel bad.”