When We Were Bright and Beautiful(35)

The half-life of a daughter’s grief is equal to the length of time she spent with her mother multiplied by the rest of her life. I always feel Rachel’s absence. Which is why I try to be a good girl, a good daughter for the Quinns; a better girl than my brothers are boys, a better daughter than they are sons. Nate and Billy are Quinns by birth. They can never be rejected. But my place is tenuous. So I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Eleanor and Lawrence love me, if not the most, then at least as much. I do anything they ask, anything my brothers ask. Just, please, please, please I beg you: don’t leave me behind.

That sounds so mawkish, doesn’t it? Pathetic, too. Like I’m someone who wallows in self-pity.

I lean forward. Let me stipulate, for the record, that I don’t feel sorry for myself. My family has been nothing but good—to me and for me. They would never leave me.

“They would never leave me,” I repeat, but this time I stammer. “They’d never . . . no one is leaving anyone . . . we love each other . . .”

Christ, it’s hot in my apartment. I feel like I’m suffocating. My skin sticks to my chair and makes a sucking sound when I move. I need liquids, moisturizer, a towel, something.

The cop, Haggerty, turns off the tape recorder, looks into my eyes. “Do you need to take a break, Ms. Quinn? We’ve been talking for”—he glances at his watch—“two hours already.”

“Call me Cassie. And no break. We had a deal: one interview.” Scrambling, I gulp water. “I’m just a little flustered; talking to you seems to get me all hot and bothered.”

My joke falls flat. Haggerty’s eyes are blank.

“We should stop for a few minutes,” he says. “Don’t underestimate what we’re doing. Telling a stranger about your most intimate relationships is—”

“What do you mean by intimate?”

“It’s just a word. Doesn’t mean anything. Look, I can see you’re tired. Let’s pick this up another time.”

“Don’t tell me I’m tired,” I say wearily. “It’s patronizing.”

“Not intentional, Ms. Quinn. I’m just asking if you prefer I come back.”

“I didn’t want you here in the first fucking place, Officer.”

“Detective.”

“Detective. Can I call you Greg?”

“Detective works, thanks.”

Detective Gregory Haggerty is skinny and angular with an oversized Adam’s apple and hawkish nose; a long, lean Ichabod Crane wearing filmy glasses and yesterday’s suit. His rumpled shirt and muddy shoes make him look inept. But his eyes give him away. Hard, black, and set deep in his skull, they drill into me, make me sweat and squirm in my chair.

“You win.” Exhaling, Haggerty feigns relief. “It’s me. I’m the one who needs a break.”

“That’s just as patronizing,” I tell him.

“Again, not intentional, Ms. Quinn.”

I feel a spike of rage that blooms into revulsion. I hate Gregory Haggerty, I think. I want him out of my apartment. Asserting these simple, declarative statements boosts my confidence, returns me to solid ground. “Again, call me Cassie.” I smile big. “We’re friends now, right?”

He’s not charmed in the slightest. Men with no sense of humor are exhausting; this guy is soul-killing.

“Can I get you more water?” he asks, as if our roles have reversed, and we’re in his apartment, not mine.

I lift my glass, which is empty. I’m so thirsty I can hear my lips pull apart when I speak. “All set,” I say. To accept anything from him is to show weakness.

“Why don’t you relax while I step out and make a few calls?” Haggerty tilts forward, speaks into his phone. “It’s ten a.m. on Wednesday, June fourteenth. This concludes Part One of my interview with Cassandra Elisabeth Forrester-Quinn.”

He clicks a button, closes a folder, and stands up, all in one motion. He seems pleased with himself. This is a bad sign. Haggerty’s confidence can mean only one thing: at some point during my epic story, I gave myself away.





Part Two


Investigation





20


I’M SERIOUS. THE HEAT IS DEADLY. OUTSIDE, IT’S, LIKE, A HUNDRED and ten degrees, and the sun has baked the brick building since dawn. With the windows closed, my living room feels like the core of a furnace. When Haggerty showed up, face flushed, hair damp, I considered turning on the air-conditioning. But then decided no, let’s not. This guy wants to talk so badly, let him shrivel up in this hotbox. Let him walk out of here a desiccated husk.

In the past two hours, I’ve done most of the talking. I started with Nate’s call in March and recounted all the high points, including meeting DeFiore, Billy’s first appearance, his arraignment, and what happened next. After that, I told him, I lost the thread. Haggerty kept pace, asking questions, follow-up questions, and more follow-up questions. And yet, he never mentioned the heat, not once. Even when his grimy sweat dribbled down his face and stained his collar, he didn’t flinch. So, points to him for grit and endurance. Not that I plan to give up. Haggerty may have won the battle, but our war rages on.

While he’s in the hall, I steal into my bathroom and suck two hits off a joint. Not enough to lose my wits, but enough to feel faraway and chitchatty; enough to retrace my steps, fix any loose ends, and close up shop.