Nothing ignites my fury like Lawrence’s man-of-the-people routine. Case in point: He had a cancer scare a few years ago. The day of his biopsy, I bit his head off for flirting with the female med techs. Maybe I overreacted, but he kept making comments about one’s “unusual green eyes” and another’s “stunning red hair” like they were sorority girls in a bar instead of hardworking professionals at a hospital. “I’m just a friendly guy, Cassie,” he said in his anesthetized haze. “I can’t help it.”

We head down the hill, the guard watching us go. My phone dings; it’s Nate texting from the backseat.

you’re too hard on him Cass

he’s impossible

he’s scared, dipshit

Chastened, my face grows hot. We’re at a light, and Lawrence takes off his sunglasses to clean the lenses. Sunlight filters through the windshield, illuminating the fine lines around his eyes and lips. He looks fragile, like an old man, and I have to turn away. Otherwise, I’ll think about his corny puns and small kindnesses, which he offers even when I’m a brat. And then I’ll remember his heartbreak about Yale, but how he still acted the proud dad. And then I’ll remember how he played hooky from work, drove me to New Haven, and took me out to a celebratory lunch. And then I’ll be flooded with love from my knees to my neck; and I’ll wonder if a PhD is worth six years of my life, or if it’s a selfish indulgence when he needs my help with the foundation, and now, with Billy.

“I’m sorry, Lawrence.” I watch the trees as we pick up speed. “I know you’re worried; I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

He squeezes my hand three times. “We’re fine, kiddo. Fine, fine, fine.” But he won’t look at me either.

8

THE PARKING LOT NEXT TO THE DINER IS PACKED, AND WE’RE lucky to find a spot. Inside, I spy a middle-aged man leafing through a file while forking eggs into his mouth. He’s heavyset and disheveled, wearing a suit jacket sized for a much smaller body over a green sweatshirt with JETS embroidered in white letters.

“That’s DeFiore,” I tell Lawrence and Nate. “In the back.”

Looking dazed, they follow my finger. Our encounter with the security guard shook us all up. We’re still getting our bearings.

“No.” Lawrence shakes his head. “I saw his website. That’s not him.”

“It is, I’m telling you.” Leaving them, I weave my way through the crowded tables.

“Cassandra Quinn,” I say when I reach him. “You must be Mr. DeFiore.”

“Peter.” He puts down his papers to shake my hand. “You must be Billy’s sister.”

“His favorite sister? Yes, I am.”

“His only sister, I hear.”

“He could have a thousand sisters, and I’d still be his favorite.”