When We Were Bright and Beautiful(53)

“Jesus.” Lawrence’s eyes widen, and I can tell I’ve hurt him. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Stop asking me that!” Fury, erupting as tears, stings my eyes.

“Cassandra.” His voice is strict, paternal. “You’re in a bad mood. That’s clear. But don’t take it out on me. We disagree about the trial. It’s not the end of the world. You’re not a child anymore, Cassie. That girl is gone. You can’t punish me for not giving you what you want. Those days are over.”

A surge of white noise fills my head. My heart starts to race. I lose feeling in my fingers and toes. I know this is true, of course this is true, but when I’m here, in this house, time collapses. I’m thrown back to the past in the present tense; there’s no before and no after.

“What do you mean, gone?”

“You’ve matured.” Lawrence doesn’t realize I’ve left, that I’m split, that I am twenty-three and sixteen, adult and child, woman and girl. “You’ve grown up. Act like it.”

Act like it, act like it echoes in my ears. “What?” I ask, not because I didn’t hear, but because I need him to explain.

“You can’t treat me like shit,” Lawrence says slowly like I’m an idiot.

“I’m not!” I’ll treat you however the fuck I want, I think. “I’m just living my life—at least I’m trying to. But every five minutes, I get called back here. So I race home. Every fucking time. It’s like I’m not a real person; I’m just a doll you can manipulate any way you want.”

My anger centers me. My pulse slows. I’m able to breathe. I return to the now, the real now, as the past now recedes.

Back in the kitchen, my self clicks into place, reassembled. I glance out the French doors. On the terrace, Eleanor and Nate are sitting side by side. He’s smoking too. In the near darkness, plumes of smoke rise into the air then disappear. Sprawled in his chair, Nate is gesturing emphatically, as if making a point. The tip of his cigarette glows. Next to him, Eleanor’s spine is straight, and her ankles are crossed. Seeing her so self-possessed, I feel a crush of sorrow for Lawrence. He seems lost and alone. Cast out. I can’t remember the last time the family turned against him. In fact, I don’t think I ever have.

I resolve to be nicer. He’s just trying to keep his son safe. “You’re right,” I say gently. “That was mean. I’m sorry. Here.” I push the bowl of berries across the counter. “There’s enough for you.”

*

On Wednesday morning, the valet brings my car around. I’ve been home less than a week, but I’ve reached my limit. I’m heading back to New Haven. Classes start after Labor Day, I told my parents, and I need to get ready. They balked, and rightly so. It doesn’t take three weeks to prepare. So, I countered with two visits: for my birthday on August 20 and for one meeting of their choosing with DeFiore. Deal, we agreed.

I’m about to slide into the driver’s seat when I notice Anton and Joey huddled with a third man under the porte cochère. I wouldn’t think twice, except there’s something familiar about the man’s threadbare jacket and the way he slouches forward, as if to seem shorter. When he turns sideways, I see his profile and almost pass out. It’s Greg Haggerty, the fucking detective.

I get into my car, but Haggerty has already spotted me and is speed-walking over. “Ms. Quinn,” he says grandly, grabbing my door before I can close it. “We meet again.”

“What the fuck? Are you following me?”

“What are you gonna do?” He chuckles. “Call the cops?” His face is flushed from the heat, his thin hair pasted to his scalp. Seeing this reminds me of his unannounced appearance in June, our two-hour conversation, his probing questions.

“Seriously,” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as uneasy as I feel. “Why are you at my parents’ house?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to see you. Just catching up with old friends.” He waves toward the door, where Anton and Joey were standing. They’re both gone.

“What could you possibly want from them?” I try to swallow, but my throat’s dry as dust. I think about that night in the Bronx. The bar, shadowy inside, neither dark nor light. Fizzy laughter. Fishnet stockings. Garish red lipstick on a starched white collar. Idiots, me and Marcus. It’s like we were trying to get caught.

Haggerty doesn’t answer, instead he studies the Valmont. The building is the crown jewel of New York real estate, but any structure that stands for a century and a half will be leaky, drafty, and plagued by mold. Paying for upgrades is an expensive proposition, and while every resident has the means, none of them wants to open their wallets. This, by the way, is how the wealthy stay wealthy.

“This place has seen better days, Ms. Quinn.”

“Call me Cassie. We’re old friends. And you’ve seen better days, too. No offense.”

“Right for the heart.” He clutches his chest. “You have a tongue like a dagger.”

“So I’ve been told.” I pause, change the subject. “Rich people like old things, the older the better.” I wave at the Valmont. “It’s a funny thing about affluence, Detective. The real rich never talk about money or flash it around. The middle-rich, newly rich, and never-rich are the ones who need to show off.”