When We Were Bright and Beautiful(8)

“Did you get my messages? I tried you, like, ten times. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“I was on the phone all day, looking for a criminal attorney. I like one guy—Peter DeFiore. Supposedly, he’s the best. Plus, he knows New Jersey courts. Eleanor can’t stand him, naturally. And he is a little rough around the edges. But . . .” He pauses. “Regardless, sorry I didn’t call, kiddo, but I knew Nate was reaching out.”

I scoff. “Nate was selective with the details. Which means I need the whole story from you.”

“I wish I had time, honey. But this guy, DeFiore, agreed to meet me at the place where they’re holding Billy. He’ll be there at”—Lawrence checks his watch—“eleven. I can’t be late. He said he might be able to get me inside.”

“Inside the jail?”

“Not a jail,” he corrects me, sharply. “It’s just a detention center.”

“I’ll come.” Standing up, I reach for my canvas tote bag, which is on the floor, open. Leggings, T-shirts, underwear, and bras spill out. Rummaging through the pile, I quickly grab a clean pair of jeans, a sweater, and suede boots, but Lawrence just stands there, watching me.

“Cass, wait. Cassie, stop. It’s better if I sort this out alone. Eleanor will be able to tell you more once she gets back. But you won’t be able to see Billy. I probably can’t either. Regardless, it’s best if I meet the lawyer by myself. Eleanor agrees,” he adds, as if she’s the final authority.

Regardless, regardless, regardless. The way he repeats himself drives me up the wall. It’s always like this: I miss Lawrence terribly and feel guilty when I’m away, but after five minutes with him, I feel trapped, anxious to flee. My phone dings. It’s Nate, texting: there in fifteen.

A thought occurs to me. “Where is Eleanor anyway?”

“Mobilizing a private militia, of course. Right now, she’s having breakfast with Burt and his partners. She’s talking to lawyers, judges, anyone who can get Billy home. By noon, she’ll have the US Attorney holding a press conference.”

“You still haven’t convinced me why I can’t go with you.”

“I’m concerned about Billy.” His voice breaks. “He’ll be fine. Of course, he will. But the girl is refusing to back down. As is the DA. He wants to make an example of Billy for reasons that aren’t entirely clear. So I have to stop this today—before your brother gets further embroiled. And before the press hears about it.” He’s interrupted by his phone; a ring so loud we both jump. “It’s Eleanor.” He clears his throat then calls out an upbeat “Hey, hey, honey!”

The change in him is instantaneous, like he stepped through a screen and emerged triumphant. “Everything’s moving along great. Yes, Eleanor. Of course, you’re upset. I’m upset too. But I promise, it will be fine . . . Yeah. I am. Leaving in a minute.” Glancing at me, he points to the phone, mouths sorry.

“I’m going with you.” My own voice is forbidding; I dare him to say no.

“Of course!” He waves, still talking to Eleanor. “Sounds good!” Then he heads out of my bedroom and into the hall, walking and talking, filling the air with glad tidings and cheer.





6


WHEN I STEP OUTSIDE A FEW MINUTES LATER, THE SUN IS shining, but it’s windy. Lawrence’s Mercedes idles in the driveway, and I expect to see him behind the wheel, but he’s standing under the heated porte cochère, his back turned to me, presumably still on the phone with Eleanor.

“Did you sleep here?” I ask Anton as he escorts me to the waiting car. “Aren’t there rules about working too many hours?”

“Yes, there are many rules.” He pats my shoulder. “But I appreciate your concern for my welfare.”

We both watch Lawrence approach, finally phone-free. He’s wearing a ski jacket and thick wool cap. I’m shivering in my light tweed blazer. For a second, I consider going back upstairs for a heavier coat, but don’t move. “We’re driving to New Jersey,” I tell Anton.

“So I hear.” He starts to open the driver’s side door, but Lawrence is already there. “Got it, thanks,” he calls out, waving dismissively as he slides into the front seat. “Let’s go, Cassie.”

“How did you hear?” I ask Anton quietly.

“Hearing is my job. I take my job seriously. This way I know everything.”

Anton is kidding, but I panic all the same. I feel a sudden chill spread along my arms and down to my fingers, which start to tingle. Saliva soaks my mouth. A metal taste permeates my tongue and teeth. “I doubt you know everything.”

“Knowledge is power, Miss Cassandra,” he says, but his voice comes from a remove. He chuckles in slow motion, like a tape played at half-speed.

I hear myself panting and force out words to muffle the sound. “Depends on what you do with that information, Anton.” Even as my pulse click, click, clicks. Even as heat spreads across my scalp, I feel myself disappear.

A few years ago, in high school, I went through a difficult period. My best friend, Avery Walker, and I had a fight, a big one. In the aftermath, I was lonely, self-destructive, and hungry for affection. I did what lots of girls do: smoked too much weed, blew off my classes, and started seeing Marcus Silver, a guy who was wrong for me in all the worst ways. Our love story, simultaneously epic and ordinary, started as a slow burn then escalated at warp speed. Marcus was intoxicating. He taught me about insatiable cravings, and how it feels to want more—more fun, more sex, more everything. Soon, I was desperately in love, and after that, just desperate. No one knew he existed. Only Anton, who caught us once in a compromising position. At least I think he did. But he never mentioned it, nor did he tell a soul. In my world, this makes him more trustworthy than family. Still, his words, however innocently he means them, raise all kinds of fears.