The Porters and the Quinns have been intertwined for as long as I can remember. Powell’s father, McClain, is part of the city’s political machinery. Briefly, he and Lawrence worked together; and McClain still checks in from time to time. After making a bundle in real estate, McClain ran for comptroller and served two successful terms. Now, there’s talk he’ll be the next mayor. New Yorkers adore dashing men-about-town, though McClain settled down a while ago with a woman who helped raise his sons. Powell’s brother Deacon is Billy’s age, and they’re friends, but not nearly as close as Powell and Nate. The older boys met in Little League, and then Powell angled his way into Groton, where they both played football. Unlike Nate, Powell was a genuine star with a massive frame built for destruction. In high school, he tried to fuck me, but I didn’t take it personally. Powell is one of those guys who tries to fuck everyone.

“Nate keeps you posted on Billy?”

“Of course he does. He tells me everything, Cassidy Cakes. He’s like a fucking girl that way.”

Of course, he tells me, tells me, tells me starts to echo. A whoosh of blood fills my ears, blocking out sound. My throat closes up. My heart races. The small, cramped store gets smaller and more cramped until it’s a box. Trapped in here, I can’t breathe.

“The girl?” Powell’s voice comes from far away. “Diana? She’s lying. Billy’s a gentle soul. I don’t say that about anyone. We had horny fuckers in our crew. Dash Lovell, Brody Leighton. Christ, I once saw Aiden Ambrose on top of—You know what? Doesn’t matter. But Billy? No way. I told Nate to call my dad. He’ll help however he can.”

Powell Porter is the worst kind of guy: feral masked as submissive. He pretends to give a shit when, really, you’re just a means to an end. In grade school, Powell made fun of Billy’s stutter (“B-b-b-b-illy”). When Nate found out, he clocked Powell so hard, he shattered his nose. Powell apologized, and he and Nate stayed friends. Nate said he wanted to keep the peace, or for the greater good; I can’t remember how he spun it. But like civilized men, they shook hands and moved on.

“Nothing this girl says will stick.” Powell’s eyes are glassy, and I realize he’s stoned. “They dated for six months; she was his girlfriend ! Elmo will be fine, Cass.”

“Don’t call him that.” Using my nickname is crossing a line; it’s like calling Billy a retard—which Powell also did, by the way.

At the register, Powell is behind me, so close he steps on my heels. I point to Marlboros and pull out a fifty. “Two packs, actually,” I tell the guy.