When We Were Bright and Beautiful(50)

It kills me to see Billy so unhappy. Except for twice-weekly psychiatrist appointments and meetings with DeFiore, he does nothing except watch TV on his laptop and sleep. He doesn’t even look like himself. His once-lean body is doughy. His face is bloated and shadowed with stubble. His eyes are dull and unfocused. He smells foul.

“Come on, Billy. We have a trial to prep for. DeFiore says first impressions are critical. So, you have to clean up and get in shape.”

“We? Since when do we have a trial, Cassie?”

His anger catches me off guard. “What does that mean?”

“You don’t live here anymore. I don’t need you waltzing in, telling me I’m fat, and acting like you give a shit about what happens to me.”

“Of course I give a shit,” I tell him. “But you’re right. I have been wrapped up in myself. I am sorry for that and will make it up to you. In the meantime, I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. Billy, I can see you’re scared. We all are. I want to help you, so let me, okay? First, you have to sit up. Please? Look at me.”

Groaning theatrically, Billy complies. He won’t meet my gaze, but I place my hand on his arm. “Billy.” My voice is gentle. “Is there anything about Diana you didn’t tell DeFiore?”

“What are you really asking, Cassandra?”

“Will you take me through the night one more time?”

At first, Billy doesn’t reply, as if considering where to start. Oh good, I think in relief. We’re going to talk. But I misjudged his silence.

A beat later, he explodes, like gunpowder packed into a pipe.

“Who the fuck are you?” He’s so enraged he is spitting. I had no idea he harbored such fury. “Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are?” Up on his knees, he shouts in my face. “I told the cops everything! I told the lawyers everything! I have been over that night a hundred times. So, no. I have nothing more to say—not to you.” Billy pushes me back. “Get out of here, Cassie. I’m serious.”

I don’t move. Hey, Elmo, where are you? What happened to you? I study him closely, try to catch a glimpse of my brother in this stranger’s red face. His eyes fill with tears. Embarrassed, he swipes at them with the back of his hand.

“Hey,” I say softly, just as he shoves me, hard, with both hands.

Flying off the bed, I land flat on the floor. My back hits with such force that my breath gets knocked out. Looming above my face, Billy grabs my T-shirt and raises a fist. His eyes are glazed. His jaw is set. He’s assessing me with a cold calculation that freezes my blood.

“Do it. I dare you, Billy.” He wants to hit me; we both feel it. And I want him to. We feel that too. “Do it, please.” My body is jacked up; every nerve, every fiber is tingling. The feeling is as intense, as demanding, as the desire to fuck. “Please, Billy. Just once.”

“Stop, Cassie! Jesus.” He slumps against the bed. “You’re not trying to help me.” Billy is crying now, sobs that wrack his whole body. “You’re calling me a liar. Which is insane. You’re the liar. Your lies ruined my life. Look at me, Cassie. Look what you’ve done to me. It’s time you told the truth, not me.”

My fear swells and becomes a living thing, slippery and impossible to harness. I force myself to sit still, to stay in this room with my brother and help him find a way out. Meanwhile, I’m cartwheeling, unable to contain the chaos inside me.

“I know you’re upset,” I say weakly. “But I’m not the one on trial here.”

“You should be. If I had the balls, I would tell everyone how fucked up you are.”

“My little brother is innocent,” I told Haggerty, and I meant it. “He didn’t rape Diana Holly.”

What I didn’t say? He sure as shit has it in him, Detective.





30


SECRETS NEVER DIE. THEY’RE SELF-SUSTAINING ORGANISMS. They exist on a cellular level, so they’re part of you, like your hair, your nails, your blood. Secrets grow, divide, and metastasize. You try to bury them. You will yourself to forget. But they fester and swell, roil and spread. Little by little, they rise to the surface. Secrets make your skin itch. Your pulse twitch. They bleed from your pores. Secrets reveal themselves, like shifting tattoos, all over your body.

I’m home three days before it becomes too much. Wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, I head out for a manicure. It’s risky, I know, but it’s a Sunday afternoon in August, and most of the press is on vacation. I’d rather face the remaining stragglers than suffocate in my bed.

Summer in the city is not for the weak. The sun beats down from above, streets melt underfoot. The air is heavy, and reeks of urine, unwashed bodies, and rotted garbage.

At the nail place—a cheap one, on Second Avenue—I select the sleaziest, sluttiest red I can find. “Nails and toes, please,” I tell the manicurist. Feeling slutty is not the same thing as acting slutty, but it will suffice. I haven’t spoken to Marcus since our last call. Nor have I replied to his texts. Already, I feel stronger.

Forty minutes later, I’m at the dryers, staring out at the street, when I see Avery stroll past. What is she doing here? She’s spotted me too. We lock eyes through the glass. I raise my hand.

Next thing I know, she’s sitting in the empty chair beside me. “Presentation of the nails, please” is the first thing she says.