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.”