“The reverend didn’t say it in there, he didn’t say how they died. I googled it during the Lord’s Prayer.” Bunny stabs her cigarette against the stone bench, wipes it as if it were a paintbrush, then flicks it into a boxwood bush.
“I’m deleting my Finsta,” Bunny says. Her “fake” Instagram account, the dark virtual underground world of gossip, of cruelty, of humor, of taunting and teasing and laughing, where the faces behind it accept followers they deem worthy of the privilege of seeing who they really are. Where the “real” Instagram is public domain for parents, teachers, and college administrators to dote over: Soccer goals! Prom photos! Family vacations! Not snorting Adderall, blow jobs, and poverty memes. A reckoning is slithering its way into Bunny’s consciousness, however slowly, Audrey’s murder prompting a turning point, forcing her to question the role she played as friend and the legacy she’ll someday leave behind.
Bunny puts the phone down and looks up. Audrey’s boyfriend, Justin Finnigan, plaid scarf, striped tie, khakis, cries into the shoulder of Mr. Muller, the AP history teacher, despite just three days ago hitting sloppy seconds with Lily Anderson in the corner of the Children’s Chapel. Tessa Dawson, also known as Testicles, posted a candid photo of the couple that penetrated the darkest tunnels of the gram for everyone to see, spinning Audrey into a vengeful rage.
“What a douche.” Stan exhales in Justin’s direction, crossing one leg over the other as if in the audience at New York Fashion Week. He swoops his blond hair out of his eyes and to the side.
Their friend Marty Robinson slumps toward them, a long string bean, plaid bow tie, round tortoiseshell glasses, he’s carrying a copy of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening for his AP English class all marked up with notes in the margins and yellow highlighter. His parents are professors at Howard Law School and write books on public policy, though he’ll end up at Harvard. Known as Smarty Marty, the only Black kid in their class, he’s a straight-A student who could take the SATs stoned and still score a 1600 (2400 including the writing section).
“Hey, guys,” Marty says, looming gloom, hand in his pocket, book dangling by his side. Bunny stares at him and Stan nods his head. “Where’s Billy?” he asks.
Bunny takes a deep breath, consumed by Audrey’s death. “He had to go listen to his dad speak at work or something.” She says it so casually, so astonishingly nonchalant, work or something, the naïveté palpable on the edge of adulthood, the familial power in the hands of children who don’t even know it’s theirs.
“Oh, does he know what happened?” Marty asks.
“I just texted him,” Bunny says. More clip-clopping is coming toward them down the stone steps; all eyes turn to the wall and traveling ivy as Chase Cowan and none other than Mackenzie Wallace, Senator Wallace’s daughter, appear before them.
“Yo, Smarty Marty, New Girl is lookin’ for you,” Chase says. Mackenzie, Betsy and Doug’s older daughter, stands with her hands clamped before her, knee socks, stringy hair hiding her bald spots, nose red from the wind chill. She didn’t know Audrey Banks, so she stands with wide eyes, lost and clinging to anyone who will talk to her, just wanting to feel like she’s going through this traumatic bonding experience with all of them.
Chase is the star football quarterback; his dad also happens to be the head of the CIA. He’s got anger issues as a result of his father’s PTSD post-9/11. Chase was born just months before the Twin Towers and the Pentagon were hit. His father, an employee under the director at the time, was summoned on a mission to a base in Afghanistan. He wasn’t in the military; he was an intelligence analyst trained as an interrogation guy. Up and away in a warplane; it was imperative to their survival that upon landing the engine not be heard by al-Qaeda or Taliban local militants, so they turned it off and let the plane glide toward base, only turning the engine back on at the last moment, preventing a crash landing by seconds. Chase’s father was sure they would die. But minutes later, he was led out of the plane to a secret prison. When he returned, he went through a dark period of extreme paranoia, resulting in mostly absence from a lot of Chase’s earlier years. The safe room in their house still exists, though his father doesn’t go in there much anymore. Instead, Chase and his friends use it to deal drugs and get high.
Marty walks over to Mackenzie and puts an arm around her, she’s not sure if it’s friendly or romantic but certainly awkward. “Hey, do you guys know Mackenzie Wallace? She’s new. We have English together.”
“Nice to meet you.” Bunny sticks out her hand because that’s what girls with manners do.
“Ah yes, you’re in Mr. Watson’s calculus class,” Stan says.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Mackenzie smiles, thankful she’s been noticed.
“You still having people over tonight, Putin?” asks Marty.
“Audrey died, the party didn’t.” Stan taps the ash of his cigarette away.
“Jesus, Putin.” Bunny punches him in the arm.
“Too soon, man, too soon,” Marty says, shaking his head.
“Mackenzie, you’re invited to my house tonight. I have lots of vodka to chase our troubles ahvay,” Stan says in a phony accent. His elbow resting on his knee, cigarette in hand like he’s fucking Truman Capote.
“His mansion is dope,” Chase says.
“Secret service making a beeline, put your cig out,” Bunny says, bumping shoulders with Stan. He reaches for the back of the bench, dabbing the ash, and drops the cigarette behind him.
Two men built for the marines, wearing khakis and white polos with clear wires stuck to the backs of their necks, walk toward this group of inheritance survivors. None of them fazed, only annoyed by their encroaching presence.
“There’s a black Escalade in the front circle, belong to any of you?”
“Does it have diplomatic tags?” Chase asks, not giving a shit.
The agents look at each other. “It does,” one of them says.
The kids laugh at them. These agents are on their turf. It’s not the first time government security detail has been stationed on their campus. The vice president’s son is an alum, so is the chief of staff’s daughter, and now the current president’s daughter is here, a young freshman.
“Yeah, that’s Ambassador Rothschild’s kid, good luck trying to get him to move.” Marty gives Chase a fist bump, letting him know he’s gotta get to class; he and Mackenzie walk away. The bell rings. Bunny and Stan leap from the bench.
“Sorry, can’t help ya there,” Bunny says, scurrying back up the stone steps and off to class.
The two secret service men are left standing there, abandoned by a lack of intimidation. The school flag whips through the icy wind behind them; it reads: KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Winners’ Room at the National Press Club is a private room with wall-to-wall blue and gold carpet, several mahogany bookshelves, and photographs of journalism royalty: Bob Woodward, William F. Buckley Jr., Walter Cronkite. General Montgomery’s celebratory luncheon is full of Pentagon officials and VIP members of the press club.
Billy sits uncomfortably in between a general he’s never met before and his father. He picks at his chicken marsala, the brown sauce oozing into his green salad, thinking about Audrey Banks and wishing he were with his friends at school, feeling excluded from the haunting drama, this day that no one will ever forget. But he keeps her death to himself; he knows better than to drag the attention elsewhere. Things seem to be changing at an ever-escalating pace—a windmill of anxiety spins inside him. And he tries not to keep looking at his phone, knowing he’ll be scolded for it. He was raised to always show the highest form of respect at whatever cost to military personnel, particularly those who have worked closely with his father—put their lives on the line for him, for their love of country, for their love of God. He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. It takes all of his resistance not to answer it.
“William—” says the general sitting next to him.
“Oh, you can call me Billy,” he replies
before the man can finish. Billy feels his father threatening him with a forbidding look; never interrupt someone of higher rank.
“Billy,” the man says, picking up his knife and fork, cutting into the overcooked chicken, “you must be proud of your old man.”
Aware that his father is listening, Billy takes a discreet breath, swallows. “Yes, sir, very proud.…” He forces a smile that feels uncomfortable but looks legitimate.
“Next in line?” the general says, nudging his knuckle bearing a custom-made military ring with an emerald into the side of Billy’s arm.
“Well, sir, I could never be my father even if I tried, the man’s a legend.” Billy chuckles nervously, then looks to his father for validation. General Montgomery wipes the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, says nothing.
The messages Billy receives in what his father does not say often drive him to the edge of his insecurity, convinced that his father is unceasingly displeased. Billy can’t seem to escape any adult conversation without feeling he could somehow have done it better.
“You’re not going into the military?” the general asks, taking Billy’s attempt at self-deprecation literally.
“Oh, no, sir, I mean—I’m, well…” He stumbles, searching for the courage to say the thing he wishes he never had to say: that he will be attending the academy whether he likes it or not—
Just like his father’s father’s father, his father’s father, his father…
“I haven’t heard back yet from the academy,” Billy says, skirting the question.
“Well, let me fill you in on a top secret, son—you’ll get in.” The general winks and puts his knife stabbed with chicken in his mouth.
Billy chuckles, then furrows his brow and looks down at his untouched plate searching for something to say, to appease his father’s silence, to make it go away. He looks up at the eager-to-be-friendly general. “Thank you, sir.”
“So what do you like to do in your free time, Billy?” the general asks. Before Billy can answer, he notices a member of the security team walk over and whisper something in his father’s ear, drawing his attention away. Billy feels a moment of relief despite wanting nothing more than for this afternoon to just end.
“Uh, my free time? I, uh, well, I…”
“Hobbies—do you have any hobbies, Billy? It’s important for a man in the military to have hobbies, for dealing with… stress.”
Billy momentarily mistakes this question as an invitation for shared honesty and possible commonality rather than a test of one’s endurance or tenacity—a trick question only in hindsight. “I love to play music, sir.”
The general raises an eyebrow, perks up with surprise. “Ah, music?”
“The ukulele. I taught myself how to play it on a YouTube channel.”
“A YouTube channel…” The general looks confused.
Billy’s father finishes talking to the security officer and places his napkin on the table to express that he is finished. Billy glances down and over at the napkin as evidence, acutely aware of its position on the plate, the movement of his father’s hands, and the impossibility of navigating the end of this conversation.
“Um, yes, sir, there are channels and lessons on YouTube you can find.…” He’s searching for a way out, trying to make it sound better than the words he hears coming out of his mouth, revealing the duality of who he really is versus who he has to be. “It’s… they’re free. It’s really great that we have all of this free access to information now… in a way… for things, you know, like hobbies, other hobbies we might want to learn in our free time.”
The overly friendly general isn’t exuding eagerness anymore, and Billy cringes inwardly at his misjudgment of the conversation.
“Enough,” his father says, but whether out of cruelty or genuine mortification (which he thinks he probably deserves), Billy can’t tell.
The general leans over to General Montgomery, quick to ease the tension, “Gen Z, General—what are we going to do with them?” He turns to Billy, and puts a hand in his pocket to withdraw his wallet, pulls out his business card. “Here—here’s my card. When you’re ready for a recommendation for the National War College, I’m happy to be a reference—not that you need it”—he winks and knocks him with his knuckle again, his ring digging into Billy’s bicep, then teases—“but you’ll need it.” A profound feeling of shame creeps through the blood vessels of Billy’s cheeks, and he blushes with utter self-loathing and disappointment in himself and this moment that his father must witness on the most pivotal day of his entire military career—in American and family history.
Billy takes the card with both hands, overcompensating for his human error, studies it, eagerness swapped from general to pupil. “Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you, I will take you up on it,” Billy says, waiting for his father to interject, express an opinion, tell him what a great idea that might be. Instead, General Montgomery stands, letting him know in the gaps of his silent actions that the reception is over. And if earth were on the brink of World War III or his father was disappointed in Billy’s answers, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
* * *
General Montgomery slams the front door behind him. Both Carol and Billy flinch as they stand in front of the coat closet.
“Here, Mom,” Billy says grabbing his mother’s jacket from her shoulders, ignoring the palpable tension. The Montgomery household, always under the illusion of control, a thick veil of order and tradition. Billy tries to fill the silence. “Here, Dad, I’ll take your jacket,” he says, extending his hand. The general moves toward the closet, forcing Billy and Carol to step out of the way.
“I’m going to put some tea on, honey, do you have homework to catch up on?” she asks to clear the air, walking into the kitchen.
Billy follows. “Nothing due until Monday. I, um—Stan is having some people over tonight, so…”
“Oh, a party?” Carol asks, aware that the general is still lurking in the hallway just beyond where they are standing.
“Well, no. I didn’t want to say anything earlier because… Well, I got a message from Bunny.… Did you know or ever interact with the Banks family?”
“Hmm, it doesn’t really ring a bell,” Carol says, putting the kettle on the stove. Billy starts to pull up an article on his cell phone that Bunny text-messaged him earlier, but the general walks into the kitchen, and Billy pivots, changing the subject, intuitively wanting to correct the tension. “Dad, it was great to talk with—”
“Listen, no more bullshit uka-whatever-the-fuck lessons.”
“Ukulel—”
The general slams his hand down on the counter, an explosion: “GODDAMN IT.” His eyes light up with anger as he finally makes eye contact with Billy.
“Honey, it’s okay.” Carol raises her hands in the air in an attempt to mediate, stepping toward the general from the stove. “We had a lovely afternoon—”
“Carol, I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU,” the general yells, locked on Billy. Carol takes a step back into the kitchen counter, turns to take two teacups out of the cabinet.
“A four-star general asks you about hobbies, wants to be a reference for the National War College, and you talk about YouTube videos?”
“I—I was just explaining that, or thought since he asked about hobbies, you know my lov—my interest in music…” Billy says, trying to deescalate where he predicts his father is going. Ever since he was a little boy, he’s gotten better and better at reading the general’s body language. The first time the general slugged Billy, age five, over a toy airplane that had been left in the living room, it had given him a heightened ability to read other people—to read a room, whether his or someone else’s, and without any help or intuition from his mother.
“I have been nominated by the president of the United States as the secretary of defense—do you know what this means now for our family, goddamn it? My son will not be seen looking and sounding like a goddamn homosexual—”
�
��Father, I’m… I’m just—”
“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU.”
A sudden and eerie moment of silence captures the three of them before the teapot screams. Carol runs to turn off the burner, her hand shaking as she twists its knob.
“I want that thing out of this house by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Billy says. He knows it’s an order. He puts his hands in his pockets, surrenders.
The general turns around and walks out the door, down the hallway, and into his study; the door slams.
Carol comes over with a cup of tea. “He’s going to be under a lot of pressure for a little while until the confirmation, just cut him a little slack, honey.”
Billy takes the teacup, puts it to his mouth for a sip, and flinches. “Hot,” he says.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The arrival of the arborist had interrupted Meredith Bartholomew at her Baker Queen Anne secretary desk in the study, copies of the New Yorker and the Washington Post piled in a straw basket at her feet, the exclusive Green Book resting on top, for the Bartholomews have always been listed each year. Meredith had already spoken to Maureen Harrington, Mary Haven, Jane Smith, and Karen Miller about the Banks family, a game of telephone prompting accusations, suspicions, and blame—gentrification, immigration, the gas company, poor house management—anything to give a semblance of meaning and control over the shocking and grisly news.
Relieved at the interruption, the hysteria beaten to a pulp until further information is released, Meredith stands in the middle of her front lawn with a camel quilted Ralph Lauren coat draped over her shoulders, arms crossed, vintage Cartier Tank watch peeking beneath one of her long sleeves, the cold air blowing the blunt pieces of her hair toward the back of her neck, which is cranked at a ninety-degree angle as she stares up at the two-hundred-year-old tulip poplar tree leaning toward the chimney of their house. The arborist: yellow hard hat, clear safety glasses, khakis, and old tennis shoes. He’s inspecting the health and structure of the tree, using all kinds of state-of-the-art instruments, searching for its cracks, splits, saturated soils, poor architecture, root problems, and symptoms of decay.
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