“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.

I hold up my fingers, wriggle my toes.

“Nice.” Avery nods in approval. “Very nice.”

“You like?” I blow on my nails to make them dry faster.

“Love, Chickadee.”