When We Were Bright and Beautiful(60)

“We were happy, weren’t we, Cassie? We were a happy family once?”

“I think so,” I say softly. “But I’m not really sure.”





35


IT’S THE FIRST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, MY FIRST DAY OF CLASS. Everything has come together. Today I am a new girl, wholesome, fully realized and present. Yale is gorgeous. The buildings are gorgeous. Being here, I’m gorgeous too. I pass ornate cathedrals, arched entranceways, open green spaces, and towers that rise two hundred feet in the air. I understand this is only one part of the city. Minutes away, ramshackle buildings crumble in neglect. Hungry children live in squalor. The elderly die alone. Like impoverished Manhattan, impoverished New Haven is not my town. But the disparity helps me appreciate what I have while churning up guilt and unease.

My appearance today would make Eleanor proud. Despite the warm weather, I’m dressed like a virginal schoolgirl: white blouse with Peter Pan collar, tweed jacket, pleated skirt, and sensible heels. My hair is twisted into a dignified braid. My makeup is minimal: mascara, eyeliner, and a sheen of lip gloss. I hold my books to my chest and stroll up Prospect Street like I’ve landed the starring role in the all-female remake of Dead Poets Society.

At the corner, my phone rings. It’s Lawrence, but I don’t answer. “Hello, hello, my Sweet Girl,” he’ll say in a voice so euphoric it scrapes the ceiling. “Wishing you luck.” Then he’ll ask, nonchalantly, where I’ve been, what I’m doing, why I haven’t been in touch, when I’m coming home. “No pressure, Cassie. We just miss you here.” I’ll get snared in our usual push-and-pull. When I hang up, in the space between cutting him off and aching with doubt, I’ll brim with youth, vitality, and the possibility of freedom.

The ringing stops. A minute later, it starts again. I shut off my phone, tuck it away.

“Let’s introduce ourselves,” the instructor says in my first class of the semester. “Anyone want to start?”

Lawrence will call me every day for the next several weeks. Occasionally I’ll ignore him; most times I won’t. My strength is not enough to sustain me. For now, though, for this one moment, I can say no. “My name is Cassandra Forrester,” I say to the room. Today, I am no longer a Quinn. Here, in this class, I am reborn.

*

A few weeks later, I’m drinking iced coffee at a diner when a shadow passes over my computer. A man stands behind me.

“I get the sense you’re avoiding me, Ms. Quinn.”

“What makes you say that, Detective?”

“Cop’s instinct.” Haggerty slides into a chair across the table. “You don’t look so good.”

“If that’s your attempt at flirting, so much for your instincts.”

“Your brother’s trial is in three weeks. Getting anxious?”

“Not at all. Billy is innocent. Justice will prevail.”

“That’s optimistic given where he’s sitting.” Haggerty flags down a waitress and orders an unsweetened iced tea. She turns to me. “More coffee, hon?”

“I’m just leaving, thanks.” I dig out a few dollar bills, which Haggerty plucks from my hand.

“She’ll have another iced coffee. And a slice of apple pie with whipped cream, please.”

“I don’t eat pie, Detective. You’re, like, the shittiest cop ever.”

“The pie is for me, Ms. Quinn.” Stumped for a comeback, I say, “Oh. Duh.” We both crack a smile. But once the waitress leaves, I cut to the chase. “What do you want?”

“We’re looking at other issues related to the Lawrence Quinns.” He sits back. “Tell me about Lawrence’s business—where the money came from, how it flowed, et cetera.”

“I told you everything. I have no other details; rather, nothing of significance to you.”

“You’d be surprised, Ms. Quinn, by what I consider significant. Which is why I repeat my questions. The story you’ve been telling me is very different from the story I’m hearing.”

“Are you saying I’ve been lying to you?”

“Sure. Maybe not lying, but distorting, omitting, overplaying. Not that it matters—to me or to your brother’s case. Billy is guilty. We have eyewitness statements, CCTV tapes, and physical evidence. Facts are facts, Ms. Quinn. They’re not transmutable. My focus is interpretation. The lies you tell because you’re not conscious they’re lies. Or, you do know they’re lies, but you don’t, or can’t, admit that they’re crimes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.”

“You know exactly, Ms. Quinn.” Haggerty sits back.

The waitress returns. “One apple pie with whipped cream.” She sets down the plate. “Iced tea and more coffee.”

Haggerty thanks her, far too effusively for a piece of pie.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “What was that about?”

“I’m an appreciative customer. You’ll find that I’m always serious, Ms. Quinn. And I think you are too. I think you’ve been wanting to talk for years.”

“You sound more like a shrink than a cop.” I keep my voice steady, my hands still. My jaw is clenched so tightly I’m grinding my teeth into dust.