It was a weird sort of holding pattern. Scott was silent but polite, in his rough-around-the-edges way. Occasionally they’d get hungry at the same time, or one of them would be watching TV and the other would stand beside the couch for a few minutes, drawn in by something interesting or funny on the screen. But mostly they avoided each other. It was as if they were each driving a car without brakes, just trying not to crash. Cass wondered ruefully how two people so often able to complete each other’s thoughts generally spent the rest of the time misunderstanding each other.
Then Scott got sick.
Cass didn’t know what time he’d gotten home the night before. These days she tried to be asleep before he came in. It was early morning, the birds still loud and boisterous, their calls mixed with the sounds of heaving coming from Scott’s room.
Drank too much, she thought, and rolled over.
But before she could get back to sleep there was another sound, a low moan. And she remembered that Scott rarely drank enough to get buzzed, much less to the point of vomiting.
She got up and went to his room, knocking lightly on the closed door.
Another moan.
She opened the door a face width and peeked in. He was not in bed. In fact, he wasn’t in the room. “Scott?”
A weak “Yeah,” then coughing.
She found him crouched on the floor of the master bathroom wearing only a pair of blue plaid boxers, elbows on the toilet rim, his back curling spasmodically with each heave. When he finished, he sat back on his heels.
“You look green.”
“I feel like a hundred and ninety-seven pounds of mold.”
“Drink too much?”
“Two scotches, maybe three.”
“So this is a bug, then.”
“Bug, nothing. It’s a freaking tarantula.” He leaned back against the Jacuzzi tub. His jaw began to quiver and he wrapped his arms around himself. “You put the AC on?”
It was late September, cool and dry, and she had put the heat on before going to bed.
Am I supposed to take care of him? she wondered. He basically hates me. Probably can’t stand having me see him so weak. She was sure he just wanted her out of there. But he looked so helpless.
At meetings they often talked about not assuming you know what others think or feel, and erring on the side of kindness.
Okay, she thought. Here comes some kindness. It’s up to you to throw me out if that’s what you want.
“Do you own a thermometer?” she asked.
A wan yet sarcastic smile. “Yeah. There’s a defibrillator around here somewhere, too.”
She came closer, grimacing at the sour smell, and put her hand against his forehead. “You’re like a furnace.”
She offered to help him to bed, but he preferred to stay where he was, and she got him a pillow and blanket to rest with between bouts. She took a T-shirt from his dresser and helped him into it, pulling it over his head and tugging it down over his long torso like a child. His feet were cold and she got him a pair of socks. He sank back onto the pillow in the middle of the dark-tiled floor, and she covered him with the blanket.
“Sorry about all this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now.
“It’s okay. Try to get some rest in between.”
The morning wore on, and she checked on him often, giving him sips of water and wiping the toilet bowl with a soapy rag. “Shouldn’t you call the team doctor?” she asked him once.
“Not yet” was all he said.
She felt bad leaving him for her meeting, but she got a dissertation from Laurel about how to handle stomach bugs. They stopped at a convenience store and got some Gatorade and saltines for when he was able to hold things down.
Around noon the phone rang. It was Kate.
“I did it.”
Whatever it was, she didn’t sound happy about it.
“Did what?” Cass was tired from the early rise and hours of nursing duty. She hoped this was a small “it.”
“Went to the police this morning.”
A very large “it.” Cass sank down onto a kitchen stool. “How’d it go?”
Brighton police station. Cass could picture it easily, having waited outside the yellow brick building with the globe lights on the various occasions when Ben had been taken in for questioning. A couple of times she’d had to answer questions herself. It seemed a lifetime away from her current upstanding citizenship in Wortherton.
“They gave me this woman detective from the Sexual Assault Unit to talk to,” said Kate. “She was really patient and nice when I got upset a couple of times. She had to ask some hard questions, she said, to make sure I wasn’t just trying to get back at an ex or something.”
Kate told the detective everything. “Then she asked how I got out of the motel and where I went. I had to tell her, Cass. She said if I withheld information, she couldn’t proceed with the case.” Kate took a deep breath and let it out. “She wants you and Scott to come in.”
“What? Why? We didn’t see anything.”
“She said you’re—hold on, I wrote it down. Percipient witnesses. You didn’t see it happen, but you saw me right after and saw what’s called fresh complaint evidence.” Kate gave a humorless chuckle. “I guess the assault was fresh and I complained to you about it.”
Scott is going to flip, thought Cass. Just what I need. Another reason for him to hate me.
“I’m wicked sorry.” Kate’s voice trembled with regret.
“Don’t apologize,” Cass said. “You didn’t commit a violent, hideous crime. They did, and they should go to jail for it. And also have their dicks cut off. With toenail clippers.”
“But Scott likes to keep a low profile . . .”
“He’ll live.” Cass could hear him throwing up again. Or maybe he’ll puke himself to death, and I won’t have to tell him.
The rape kit evidence had been sent to Brighton Police as soon as it was collected, along with numerous pictures the nurse had taken of Kate’s injuries. According to procedure, it had been kept as a “Jane Doe” kit in case the victim wanted to press charges at a later date.
“I told the detective I was sorry I waited so long, but she said it was really common, and two months wasn’t even that long. Sometimes women wait years, and then the rape kit is sitting right there in the police department with the evidence they need. It’ll take a long time to get the DNA analyzed, but the pictures and the medical report should be a good start, she said.”
The detective searched the police database for the guy’s name to see if he had any previous convictions. Then she had Kate look at a photo array of eight different men.
“All the pictures looked a lot alike, but I picked him out right away. She was pretty impressed. And she said they already had DNA evidence on him from a prior arrest.”
After reviewing the pictures and the medical records, the detective had called back. “She said, ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you.’” Kate started to cry. “I said, ‘He’s the one who should be sorry!’ And she said, ‘If you’re telling the truth, and we can find him, I think he’s going to be.’”
Since Kate didn’t know the names of the other two men, the detective said that they would try to get that information from Breen when he was brought in for questioning.
“So the next thing is for you and Scott to come in tomorrow to make statements.”
“We’ll go over in the morning,” said Cass, “before Scott goes to Fenway.”
“Thanks,” said Kate. “Thanks so much.”
“I’m proud of you for going after them,” said Cass. “It takes a lot of courage.”
They said good-bye and hung up. Cass heard footsteps in the hall. A moment later, Scott appeared in the doorway wearing a clean shirt and a pair of jeans. “Who was on the phone?”
“Kate.”
“I heard you say something about going somewhere before I have to be at the park.” His face was gray and slightly sweaty, and she suspected he still had a fever.
“How come you’re dressed?” she asked.
He leaned against the doorjamb as if he could barely manage the effort of standing. “Batting practice.”
“Scotty, you couldn’t swing a bat to ward off masked intruders right now.”
“I never missed a game.”
“Well, you’re missing one today. They’d send you home anyway to keep you from infecting the whole team. Now go back upstairs before you pass out, and I’ll bring you some Gatorade.”
He let out a weak laugh. “What are you—practicing?”
“For what?”
“Motherhood. You sounded like such a mom right there.”
* * *
CASS checked on him a couple of times, but Scott seemed as comfortable as he could be, passed out in his bed now that the vomiting had subsided. The fever made him mumble in his sleep. She wished she knew what he was dreaming about.
At about nine she locked up, set the house alarm, and headed up the stairs for the last time. The day had begun so early she could barely keep her eyes open any longer. She had just crawled into bed when there was a knock, and then her door opened.
She flipped the light back on, and he flinched at its brightness. He looked so pale, like some cave creature that never saw the light of day.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, uh, I never got a straight answer from you about going somewhere tomorrow.”
Cass sighed. She had really, really wanted to wait until the morning to tell him, hoping that after a good sleep he might be just slightly less pissed about going to the police station.
“Kate reported the rape.”
“Good. Fuckers oughta have their heads bashed in. But jail’s okay, too, I guess.” He rubbed his face. “Wait, what’s that got to do with . . . ?”
Cass explained about percipient witnesses and fresh complaint evidence. “She talked about pressing charges when we were at Fenway, but I didn’t know if she’d go through with it.”
“But then she did, and you didn’t tell me.”
“That just happened today! I wasn’t going to bother you, with the state you’re in.”
“But you knew hours ago! Were you waiting to spring it on me at the last minute?” He shook his head, fury animating him out of his fever-induced fog. “Jesus, Cass, I’m on a major-league sports team, and this could end up in the fucking papers, like pronto. You get that, right?”
She wanted to remind him that he wasn’t a suspect. In fact, he had done something good. But he hated feeling exposed, and no amount of convincing was going to change that. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to get a good night’s sleep—”
“Good night’s sleep, my ass. I’ve done nothing but show up for you, and you still keep me in the dark as much as you can. For the life of me, I will never understand how I deserve that.”
* * *
SHE tried to talk to him the next morning, but he wasn’t in a listening mood. He wasn’t feverish anymore, but he was weak and looked like he hadn’t slept much. He wanted to get the trip to Brighton done in plenty of time before batting practice, and he didn’t seem to care if she had to miss her usual ten o’clock AA meeting and walk five miles to a later one.
The inside of the Brighton Police Department station was only vaguely recognizable to Cass, having had a good buzz on the handful of times she’d been there in the past. Ben had needed her to corroborate his whereabouts occasionally, and she’d been brought in for questioning about a friend of theirs once. She had no record, but it still made her feel like a criminal.
She and Scott were ushered into separate rooms to tell their versions of the night Kate was assaulted. The detective who sat across the table from Cass had a jutting forehead that formed a ledge over his eyes. She wondered if there were hats that would fit him. Or maybe he didn’t wear hats. Maybe his own forehead was enough to keep the rain off his face.
She answered all his questions cooperatively until Officer Ledge Head asked, “So is it even remotely possible that your friend was a little bit, you know . . . into this?”
“Into being raped by three guys and beaten beyond recognition?”
“Well, you say it like that, but some of these girls these days, they like it kind of wild. They’re looking for that 50 Shades of Grey experience, you know what I mean? Spices things up for them.”
Cass winced in disgust.
Ledge Head got defensive. “All I’m saying is that some girls might think they want that, and give the signals, and then change their mind when it gets out of hand.”
“No one wants their ankle broken or their face so bruised they can only see out of one eye! So no, she did not want—or even think she wanted—any of what happened that night.”
Ledge Head’s hands went up in surrender. “I have to ask these things.”
“There’s something else. Kate said he threatened her that if she told, he’d kill her and everyone she loved. If he finds out she reported it before you pick him up, what then? She’s in danger, right?”
The man’s thick fingers gripped the pen as he scribbled this onto his notepad.
“Right?” said Cass.
“Everyone’s in danger all the time,” he muttered offhandedly without looking up at her. “It’s the way of the world.”
* * *
WHEN she went back out front, Scotty was standing with his arms crossed while some guy tried to talk to him. “Finally,” he said, taking her by the elbow and guiding her out toward the car.
“What was that, a fan?” she asked.
“No,” he said tightly. “He’s from the Globe. Snooping around for some other story, and he finds me in the lobby like a sitting duck! Shit, I’m gonna be in the fucking paper.”
As they drove home, Cass ruminated on Beck Breen’s threat. Kate was self-loathing enough to chance jeopardizing her own life. It was the everyone-you-love part that had kept her from reporting it right away. She’d been worried about her cousin Melanie’s family.
And me, Cass realized. What if Breen found out that she was Kate’s closest friend—and that she’d provided witness testimony? Could he find her?
“What.”
She turned to look at him. “I didn’t say anything.”
He continued to stare straight ahead, maneuvering the car through Oak Square and out toward the Mass Pike. “Yeah, but you’re wound as tight as a spring. That cop give you a hard time?”
“No, it’s just . . . It’s dumb, but Kate said something. That the guy threatened to kill her if she talked, and everyone she loved.”
Scott’s face went hard. “Did she mention you to him?”
“No. I mean probably not. She didn’t say she did.”
“But she was wasted, so who knows what she said.”
“I’m more worried about her cousin. She has little kids.”
He was silent for the rest of the ride. But when he pulled into the driveway, he said, “You should hang at Laurel’s tonight while I’m at the game.”
She had thought of that. Over the course of the car ride, Breen’s threat had ballooned into palpable danger in her mind. “I just hate to bug her after everything they went through with Drew.”
He turned to look at her for the first time all day. “Don’t argue.”
* * *
WHEN Cass called, Laurel said she was happy to have the company. But she didn’t look happy when she opened the door. The house was strangely quiet.
“Where are the boys?”
“Timmy’s napping, and the older boys aren’t home from school yet. I need to talk to you.” Laurel strode back toward the kitchen, and Cass followed, hoping desperately it was an interior design crisis, or a cleaning crisis—anything but a real crisis.
Laurel poured a glass of milk and set it on the table. “Drink,” she said, sitting down. “Babies suck the calcium right out of your bones.”
Cass took a sip. “What’s up?”
“The guidance counselor at Drew’s school is strongly suggesting family therapy. Strongly suggesting.” She jabbed her finger at the table with each word. “As if I can’t be trusted to do everything in my power to help my son!”
“Well, maybe he just doesn’t know you that well. A lot of families probably want to sweep something like this under the rug.”
“I am not sweeping!” Laurel let out an exasperated sigh. “I should be sweeping—or vacuuming. Heck, this should make me want to dust-bust the whole neighborhood.”
Cass smiled. Laurel had finally gotten fully on board with AA—she certainly had the self-deprecating humor down. “So you’re going to do family therapy?”
“All that mucking around in the past. The kids will have to talk, too.” She closed her eyes. “It’s all going to be about me and what a terrible mother I’ve been.” She looked at Cass. “Remember the Prescott Center, when you asked how badly I’d screwed them up?”
“Oh, God, Laurel, I didn’t even know you then, I was just reacting to—”
“Yes, but you were right. That’s why I hated you so much.”
“I never should have said it. You have no idea how bad I felt.”
Laurel waved it away. “I was baiting you about not going to a doctor. I was so ashamed, I had to make someone else look worse than me. Buying my innocence with your guilt.”
It was true, Cass realized, and she had to hand it to Laurel for admitting it. “Can you believe that we’re such good friends, after the way we started?”
Laurel patted her hand. “Frankly, it’s shocking.”
Cass sighed. “Now, I have something to tell you.” She explained what had happened and why she had to stay out of the house until Scott came home. If he comes home, she thought.
“And now he’s mad at me. It’s not like I was trying to keep things from him—I was only waiting until he wasn’t delirious with fever. And then there’s a Globe reporter at the police station. Like I have any control over that!”
Laurel considered this for a moment. “I think he’s scared.”
“Yeah, well, I’m scared, too, and I have a lot more reason to be.”
“No, I think he’s scared for you.”
Cass rolled her eyes. “If he’s so worried for my well-being, why’s he treating me like dirt?”
“Some guys are like that. Anger is easier than fear. It makes them feel less helpless.”
“He should be angry at the criminal in this scenario, not me!”
“I’m sure he is. But he’s also angry at you because you’re the reason for the fear.”
* * *
WHEN Scott pulled into the driveway late that night, Cass went home.
“How was your game?” she asked him.
“Sucked,” he said.
“Sorry.”
The message light was blinking on the answering machine, and Cass pressed the play button. Scott stood in the doorway to hear it, too. It was Kate. Based on their statements, the pictures, and Kate’s medical report, the police got the DA to issue a warrant for Beck Breen.
“Now we just have to wait for them to get the bastard,” said Scott. “I got a series in Tampa starting tomorrow,” he went on. “Can you stay with Laurel?”
“I can ask.”
“Let me know. If not, you’re going to a hotel. Even with the alarm and all, I don’t want you alone in the house.”
Protective. Maybe Laurel was right. She looked Scott in the eye, and for once he didn’t look away. “I wasn’t trying to keep things from you, Scotty. You have to believe me on that.”