Cover

Dedication

IN MEMORY OF JEFFREY MASAREK, MY FOREVER FRIEND

(1963–2021)

Epigraph

And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.

—1 PETER 4:8

Part One

Discovery

1

THIS IS BILLY’S STORY. BUT IF I WERE THE ONE TELLING IT, I would start with Nate’s call. For me, that’s the pivot point between before and after; the moment I was, for lack of a better expression, jolted awake.

“Cassie? You there?” Nate, my older brother, is shouting into the phone. He’s back in New York, and he’s frantic. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours.”

“I’m sorry. I was in the library. I shut off my—”

“Cassie, listen, okay? Something awful happened to Billy.”

Nate is talking so fast his sentences bleed together. I make out the word rape, but that can’t be right. Then he says it again.

“Billy was raped?” This can’t be true. Our younger brother isn’t just strong; he’s also scrappy as hell. “Is this a joke? If so, it’s not funny.”

“Come on, Cassandra. Billy wasn’t raped, he was arrested for rape.” His voice is tinged with antipathy. “I wish I were joking. The girl is out for blood. She . . .” Trailing off, he leaves me to twist.

At twenty-five, Nate is a typical big brother, as bossy as he is protective. I’m twenty-three, and Billy is twenty-two. Billy and I are Irish twins; we’ve been inseparable our whole lives.

“Who’s the girl, Nate?” I ask, though I fear I already know.

“Diana Holly.”

Oh, shit. My body stiffens like I’m girding for battle. If Diana Holly is involved, something is very wrong.

“Yes,” Nate agrees, though I’ve said nothing. “You’re right.”

Our family is partial to silence, but like many siblings, my brothers and I communicate telepathically. At the moment, for instance, Nate and I are tallying up all the ways Diana has hurt Billy before, and the signs that she’d one day go too far.

Billy is a junior at Princeton, as is Diana. They met last June and dated on and off until he broke up with her in December, three months ago. “Not enough hours in the day” was his explanation, which makes sense. Billy is premed and a serious athlete, so he’s buried under a heavy class load and brutal training regimen. He also tutors kids with special needs, children who, like him, have trouble expressing themselves.

“Have you spoken to Billy?” I ask.

“No, just to Dad, and only for a few minutes.”

“How is he?”

“Billy? Scared, mostly. Baffled. Losing his mind. But physically okay, I guess.”

“I didn’t realize he and Diana were . . .”

“Her name still comes up. She knows his weak spots, and you know Billy.”

Billy’s weak spots are also his core strengths and vice versa. He’s defenseless against people in need. After college, he plans to go to med school, become a pediatrician, and subspecialize in something brainy, like clinical genetics, so he can cure childhood aphasia. Sure, it sounds noble. But you know how super-smart people are sometimes big idiots? That’s my kid brother. While Billy’s tunnel vision makes him an excellent student and an inspired competitor (he’s a power sprinter, with a laser focus that can bend steel), it also insulates him. He doesn’t see danger until it’s too late.

“She’s a compulsive liar,” Nate reminds me.

“So her accusation is bullshit, then.” Despite all I know about Billy, I feel a sweeping relief, like being waved through a DUI checkpoint when I’m stone-cold sober. There’s no way I could have gotten a ticket, but I’m still grateful it’s over.

“Wait. You thought it could be true?” Nate is incredulous. “Of course it’s bullshit.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything, Nate. Lighten up.”

“Lighten up? Billy is being interrogated, Cassie.”

“I’m sure he asked for a lawyer. Everyone with a TV knows if you ask for an attorney, the cops have to back off.”

“Never gonna happen. Billy won’t ask for a fucking thing. He’ll choke out what they want to hear and then clam up until they let him go.”

Billy has a speech impediment, a stutter that’s triggered under stress. Most days, it’s barely detectable, but once he starts, he can’t stop. Then he gets embarrassed and won’t talk at all, which makes him seem sullen when really he’s ashamed. In this way, my brother is more sensitive than most college juniors. He’d never hurt anyone, much less Diana Holly—a girl he loved and still has feelings for.

“Dad wants you to come home,” Nate says abruptly, a non sequitur that sounds like a command. “I’ve been here all day.” He has his own place in SoHo, a loft he bought last fall when Billy and I moved out. But from what I can tell, he’s usually at our parents’ place uptown, taking advantage of their fully stocked refrigerator, private gym, and dry cleaning service.

“Why didn’t he call me himself?” Until I left, I was our dad’s go-to child. In my absence, Nate has claimed my spot.

“Oh, I don’t know, Cassie. Maybe because he’s busy with his son being in jail and all. Why does it matter?”

I try for a conciliatory tone. “It doesn’t matter. I was asking rhetorically. Where’s Billy now?”

“In custody somewhere near Princeton. Cops don’t dick around with a rape accusation, Cass. He’s been arrested, fingerprinted, and tossed in a cell. They’re holding him while they investigate.”

“But he and Diana know each other. He’s not some guy in a dark alley. They have a long, sordid history.”

“Which will work in our favor, eventually. But last night, he and Diana left a party together. At some point after, the cops responded to a 911 call, and carted Billy off. Dad’s down in New Jersey, trying to get him out, but it’s the weekend so no one’s around.”

“Who called 911? Diana?”

“I don’t know. I told you, Dad and I only spoke for a second. He said Billy will be home tonight and wants us both there.”

I hate when Lawrence makes Nate his messenger, but of course I jump. “I just need to figure out my schedule. I have midterms next week.”

I’m up at Yale, taking a refresher class in Statistics and Introduction to Arabic, before I start a six-year PhD program for political science in the fall. No one in my life is happy about this. Last May, when I graduated from Columbia, I was supposed to work at the Stockton-Quinn Foundation, our family’s charitable nonprofit. Instead, I moved to New Haven and applied to grad school. I’ve been living here for six months. I love my coursework. I’m thrilled to be on my own. And yet my family is still waiting for me to give it all up and come home.

“Blow off the exams, Cassie. We’re in crisis. And Thursday is Dad’s birthday.”

“I know it’s his birthday, Nate. But I can’t disappear.”

“For fuck’s sake.” He snorts. “No one is asking you to disappear. Why do you always have to be so dramatic?”

“I don’t know, Nate. Why do you always have to jump all over me?”

My brother gets irritated when I talk about Yale. He’s on the equities desk at Bessemer Trust and has hated his job from day one. The plan was for me to graduate, for him to quit, and for the two of us to join the foundation together. Instead, I took off. But rather than leave Bessemer—which he can do, at any time—he chose to stay. He’s still miserable, but now he blames this on me. Obviously, there’s more to the story than impulsivity (mine) and inertia (his), but rather than discuss it explicitly like adults, we taunt each other with insults that are steeped in resentment (his) and guilt (mine).

“So, what happens next?” I ask.

“Dad’s at the jail with the Bowtie, trying to get answers.”

“He called Burt?”

“I know. The guy can’t handle a bank deposit. How’s he gonna deal with a felony? But it was three o’clock in the morning, and no one else was around. So, for the moment, the Bowtie is our holy savior, shepherd, and redeemer.”

Nate and I laugh, pals again, united in our animosity toward the Bowtie. Burt Archer is a longtime friend of our mother. During parties, he stands in the corner like an antique spindly lamp, feigning a friendly affect while pointing out who got fat and who went broke. My parents’ circle is lousy with Burt Archers, but my brothers and I loathe the Bowtie the most.

“Is he helping?” I ask.

“Fuck no,” Nate replies. “He told Dad he knows a few judges in New Jersey, so he’s calling in favors to get Billy released. But he’s, like, five hundred years old, so most of his cronies are retired or dead. One thing he can do, though, is stave off the press. The Bowtie is a gossip whore with enough dirt to make a few media dons back off, at least for the moment. If this gets out, Billy will get hammered.”

“Maybe not. Billy hasn’t had it easy, Nate. He’s had his share of problems—”

My brother cuts me off. “He’s had rich-people problems, Cassie. Park Avenue problems. The kind of problems that evoke disgust, not sympathy. Billy is the whole trifecta: rich, white, Ivy League athlete. Put those together, and you’ve got a story everyone knows. The one where the loudmouthed jock gets tanked, loses control, and attacks the nearest female.”

“Loudmouth? Billy stutters, Nate. He doesn’t drink. He rarely goes out. He was in therapy for years—”

“Speech therapy.”

“Therapy is therapy, Nate. It counts.”

“Look, Cass. You know I agree with you. But these days, it’s hashtag–believe women. The world is gunning for white guys, and the rich rapist is a fan favorite. Especially the ending, where he’s convicted and dragged away in handcuffs, leaving his family disgraced and penniless.”

The chances of our family ending up penniless are nil, even if we’re saddled with exorbitant legal fees. But the image of Billy in handcuffs pierces my heart.

“Thankfully, Billy’s situation is different,” Nate continues. “Diana is unreliable, and her behavior is erratic. Dad said the cops will drop the charges once they get a clearer picture of her and Billy’s relationship. In a perverse way, it’s better that she was the one who accused him rather than some random girl he met at the party. But in the meantime, we have to keep his name out of the papers and off the internet. Otherwise, his Google hits will follow him the rest of his life.”

“You’re not worried? Even a little?” My own stomach is in knots that keep tightening.

“No, I’m not worried. He’ll be fine. Just get in your car and come home. But do everyone a favor, Cassidy Cakes. Try not to drive like a maniac.” Nate’s voice is softer and more loving. Trust me. Trust Dad. “Cass, we’re talking about Diana Holly. It’s Billy’s word against hers. Who do you think people will believe?”

2

THE DRIVE FROM NEW HAVEN TO MANHATTAN TAKES AN hour and change, longer with traffic. But the last time I made this trip, I went door-to-door in fifty-six minutes. Afterward, when I sat down to Christmas dinner, I was full of myself. I flew here, I announced as I slid into my chair. I was unstoppable. But no one was impressed, Billy least of all. “What are you trying to prove, Cassie?” he asked sharply, puncturing my good mood. “You’re gonna kill yourself one day.” I started to protest, but the conversation had turned, and my voice got lost in the chatter.

It’s dark outside; rather, it would be if not for the spotlights shining through my windows at discreet intervals. Although it’s almost midnight, traffic is brutal. After Nate’s call, I decided to wait, figuring the roads would be clear, but, stupidly, didn’t factor in construction. So now I’m stuck in a long line of cars, unable to move, with nothing to do except agonize over Billy.

Diana Holly has been angry before, but this time she sounds unhinged. I feel a little unhinged myself, frankly. For me, going home is fraught. When I’m there, I not only have to deal with my family’s disappointment, I also have to ward off drama with my ex-boyfriend, Marcus, who can sense when I’m vulnerable. Managing both at the same time is exhausting.

So my nerves were jangled even before I pulled out of the parking lot, but this stop-and-go traffic is sending me over the edge. My foot hovers on the gas, and I’m aching to gun the engine and take off.

Let me stress one thing about Billy. My brother is a fighter. He’s overcome more challenges than anyone I know. When he was born, he was so small and sickly, no one thought he’d survive. He was slow to roll over, late to walk, and unable, or unwilling, to talk. When he finally did, he stammered so severely, he was unintelligible. By kindergarten, Billy had undergone a series of surgeries to repair his heart. Between his lousy health and stutter, elementary school was torture, and he kept falling behind. But with help from speech therapists and tutors, he caught up to his peers and eventually surpassed them. Children who stutter, particularly boys, often excel later in life. King George VI and James Earl Jones are great examples of this. So is my brother. At twenty-two, his repetitions (disfluencies, they’re called) are infrequent, and he’s mastered strategies for heading them off. Still, his impediment is a wily beast, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Certain words trip him up; and in moments of high stress, he’ll struggle to say simple sentences. It’s why his arrest, however bogus, is so terrifying. Like Nate said, if Billy is scared, he can’t defend himself.

Nate calls again. Seeing his name, I feel a weight press down on my neck and shoulders. We’ve already spoken several times, most recently an hour ago. He caught me just as I zipped up my bag. His timing is impeccable, as if he’s tracking my every move. There’s a fine line, I’ve come to realize, between loving someone and suffocating her.

A few minutes later, feeling restless and twitchy, I call him back. “I’m on the other line,” he says brusquely, like I’m the one stalking him. “It’s about Billy.”

“You told me not to tell anyone.”

“These are people I trust.”

I’m skeptical of Nate’s sources the same way I’m skeptical of Nate. My brother has a wealthy boy’s overconfidence, so he often misses the nuances in a conversation. The next time he calls, for instance, he tells me Billy won’t actually be home tonight. “The Bowtie does know a few judges in New Jersey, but they can’t release Billy.”

“They can’t or they won’t? Shit, this is bad.”

“It’s just a question of timing,” Nate assures me. “The Bowtie’s request came in too late today, so it’ll happen tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I remind him. “No one works on Sunday.”

“Prisons are like hospitals; they’re open every day.”

But there’s more, and it’s worse. Turns out Diana wasn’t the one who called 911. Two boys stumbled across her and Billy having sex in a playground. According to them, Diana was plastered, and Billy was being “forceful” or “aggressive,” so they called for help. When the cops showed up, Diana was hysterical and Billy was struggling. They put him in restraints and shoved him into a squad car.

As soon as Nate says “hysterical,” I’m reminded of another scene, a different dynamic: Billy’s Audi, a sexy two-seater, destroyed. Hood bashed in; headlights shattered. Glass awash on the pavement like water glinting in the sun. And there was Diana standing on the sidewalk, still swinging the bat, the textbook definition of hysterical. “You can’t leave me, Billy!”

What haunts me most about Diana Holly, even more than the violence, is her deceptiveness. When Billy first told me about her, I was thrilled. “She reminds me of you,” he said, to which I cracked, “That’s gross, Elmo,” and we both laughed. But he meant the way she looked after him. Between classes and labs, tutoring, twice-daily workouts and competing, every minute of Billy’s life is accounted for. Diana forced him to slow down, eat a decent dinner, relax in front of a movie. She was attentive and caring, which kept him balanced and sane. What a relief, I remember thinking, which of course I now regret; just as Billy probably regrets thinking she and I were anything alike.

Diana Holly, despite her mother hen act, is a manipulative and vindictive young woman. She’s one of those girls who plays down her attractiveness, like hiding her killer body under long wooly cardigans, as if there’s virtue in looking dowdy. She’s studying biology, and she’s very smart, with a lost-in-the-library quality I used to consider her best asset. It made her seem less vapid, more authentic than the preening show ponies we grew up with.

Women love my brothers, both of whom inherited their father’s good looks. Nate is tall and broad-shouldered, with a brilliant smile and carefree insouciance. He’s funny and sarcastic, so he gets a lot of play. But Billy is the one girls go truly bonkers over. He’s boyishly handsome, with silky black hair that falls in his face, dreamy blue eyes and a wounded affect that fuels their fantasies. While Nate and I always found it amusing to see how far girls would go to get, and then keep, our idiot brother’s attention, Diana Holly’s cunning and persistence genuinely alarmed us.

I know nothing about the criminal justice system. But I do know Diana, and it seems patently wrong that the cops can lock Billy up without knowing the facts. This is a woman who threatened him when he broke up with her, who stalked him across campus. A few times, she even snuck into his dorm room while he was in class, and was curled up in his bed, pretending to be asleep, when he returned. Billy was so disturbed, he called security. Meanwhile, he’s the one in jail; the one who gave up his fingerprints, DNA, blood—the works.

If Billy’s been hauled in for questioning, I can tell you exactly how that scene played out: four husky cops working over one lean boy, rapid-fire questions, blinding lights, scary threats. “I am inn . . .” Billy will stumble. “Inn . . .” He’ll chew his words, close his eyes. Finally, he’ll give up. “Ok-k-kay. Ok-k-k-kay.” Billy will agree to anything. He’ll even confess to a crime he didn’t commit if it means he can stop talking.

When I imagine Billy behind bars, I picture places like Angola or Folsom, where he rots in the hole or gets shanked from behind. If it was me or Nate, I’d worry, of course, but wouldn’t spin worst-case scenarios. First of all, I’m female. I have breasts. My survival instincts are stiletto sharp. Similarly, Nate, with his wolfish smile and kingpin’s charisma, would have his new inmate buddies tunneling him out by lunch. But Billy is softer than we are, more easily breakable.

Look, Billy and Nate are my brothers, and I love them beyond the beyond, but I’m able to see us objectively, dispassionately. To say our lives aren’t charmed is a lie. Doors swing open simply because we’re white, wealthy, and blessed with good genes. It’s easy to judge us, I know, because I judge myself all the time. Even so, tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Like many families, rich and poor, we’ve faced catastrophic loss, and, equally crippling, lack of purpose. Each of us has suffered; Billy most of all. To say otherwise is also a lie. My point is, you can have everything and still not have enough.

“Billy’s in trouble,” I say to Nate, who’s still on the phone. I think about our parents, scrambling for answers. I’ve called them both, several times, but they’ve been radio silent, which is unusual—and frightening. “This won’t end well for any of us.”

“Have faith, Princess.” (When I was little, my nickname was Forever Girl or Sweet Girl, which Nate turned into Sour Girl, Sour Patch, Sour Pickle, Princess Pickle, or just plain Princess.) “We’re the Quinns. Nothing can break us. All for one and one for all, remember?”

3

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