Zoe
Philadelphia, 2024
knocked at the door, a half dozen hard raps of her fist.
When no one answered, she counted slowly to ten, then started to knock again, thinking she’d stand out here for as long as she had to, that she’d knock until her hands fell off, if that was what it took.
For twenty years, she’d kept quiet.
She’d stuck to the script, the handful of lines she’d memorized: Russell D’Angelo was the love of my life.
She’d told everyone that Russell’s death was a tragedy, a terrible accident, that Cassie’s disappearance was just as sad but, also, nothing to do with her.
Now that she’d finally decided to tell the truth, she felt like a kettle on the verge of boiling over.
She thought that if she couldn’t start talking soon, if she didn’t get the truth out, she’d explode.
That morning, had been scrolling through Instagram, when a People magazine headline caught her eye: The Next Stage announces the new season’s big twist: mentors.
The long-running top-rated reality singing competition will pair competitors with big names in the music business who will coach them and perform with them in the season finale.
felt the hairs at the back of her neck quiver, saw goose bumps bristle on her forearms.
She knew what Cherry had run from...
and now the realization of what her daughter might have run toward landed in her brain with a resolute thump.
Cherry was an avid viewer of all the singing shows: American Idol, America’s Got Talent, X Factor, and, her favorite, The Next Stage.
For years, she’d begged for permission to compete.
had always told her no.
But now Cherry was eighteen.
She didn’t need permission.
And if she’d picked The Next Stage and made it past the first rounds, which seemed at least possible, the only mentor she’d want would be Cassie.
started knocking again, letting herself imagine the scene: Cherry finding Cassie somewhere; Cherry asking questions and telling her aunt about everything Cassie had missed.
Cassie, head cocked in silence, listening to what would surely be a less-than-generous assessment of ’s life and her choices.
It made feel panicky and desperate.
She knocked harder and harder, until she finally heard an annoyed-sounding “Hang on!”
pictured Bess using her four-pronged cane to push herself up from the ancient La-Z-Boy recliner, patched with duct tape, that she refused to get rid of.
The door swung open, and there was Bess.
Her hair was dyed its familiar brick-red shade; the jammy coating of red lipstick on her lips and the scuffed slippers on her feet were all the same.
Bess’s ankles were swollen.
Her hair was white at the roots.
Her expression was unreadable; her gaze was as sharp as ever as she studied ’s face.
“Hello, .
What’s wrong?”
Cassie had always been Bess’s favorite.
In the real world, was adored and Cassie was barely tolerated, but in Bess’s rowhouse, Cassie was doted on, coddled and cosseted and endlessly admired.
Aunt Bess had even gotten an upright piano from an elderly neighbor who was emptying his house, en route to assisted living, so Cassie could practice and play.
Your sister is a miracle, Aunt Bess used to tell , who didn’t want to hear it—not the music or the praise.
You’re lucky to have a sister like that.
After the band’s collapse and ’s return, her parents had welcomed her back.
Maybe not with open arms, but they’d taken her in, and they’d let her stay, and they’d loved her, and Cherry, as well as they could.
Not Bess.
She’d been cool, watchful and skeptical, and persistent, asking questions that had not wanted to answer.
At first had avoided Bess, barely saying hello to her at family gatherings, declining her invitations, but, eventually, she’d needed childcare, and whatever animus Bess bore toward her, it had never extended to Cherry.
Cherry, like Cassie, adored Aunt Bess, and was always delighted to spend an afternoon or a weekend with her, sleeping in the bedroom and Cassie had once shared, banging on her old piano, reading the Nancy Drew books that Janice had left behind.
“?”
Bess asked again.
Cherry’s still gone.
That was how had imagined she’d begin.
I think Bix did something to her.
She would start there, and build to I think I’ve failed her, and I can’t live with myself if that’s true, and then go backward, carefully working her way to I’m not sure I’ll be able to live with myself, no matter what, and My whole life has been a lie.
Only what ended up actually saying was “I need Cassie’s phone number.”
Bess looked at her for a moment with that probing expression had come to know in the wake of the band’s breakup, before finally opening the door wide enough to admit her.
followed her great-aunt inside, to the kitchen, and sat at the Formica breakfast bar while Bess filled the kettle and made them both mint tea.
She didn’t speak again until Bess handed her a mug and stood across from her with her own mug, silent, waiting for to begin.
“I need to find Cassie,”
said.
“I think maybe she knows where Cherry is.
Or that maybe Cherry’s with her.”
Bess stared at her, head tilted.
“What makes you think so?”
bent her head and wrapped both hands around her mug.
The ceramic was so hot she could feel the skin of her palms stinging, and she welcomed the distracting bite of the pain.
“I think . . .”
Just say it, she told herself.
“I think I know why Cherry left.
I think Bix maybe did something to her.
I found pictures—these weird, creepy pictures—on his phone.”
Bess raised her eyebrows.
“Not, like, naked pictures.
Just pictures he took when Cherry didn’t know he was there.”
Bess pressed her lips together.
’s voice wobbled as she said, “Cherry always said he looked at her.
That he made her feel weird.
And I’d ask, well, is he touching you? Is he doing anything? I didn’t realize—”
She paused to swallow, to snatch another breath.
“I didn’t understand that there’s other ways to hurt someone.”
raised her mug, trying to keep her hands steady, but couldn’t curl her lips enough to sip, as a voice in her head inquired, Aren’t you the queen of pain? If there’s a way to hurt someone, haven’t you tried it?
She set her mug down again.
“I haven’t said anything to Jordan yet.
I’m going to, but I already know what he’ll say—that I’m picking on his kid, who’s already been through enough.
Or he’ll make it like I’m the problem, for violating Bix’s privacy.”
“And you think Cassie can help?”
Bess’s voice was cigarette-raspy, even though she’d quit smoking years ago.
“Why? How does she fit into all of this?”
bowed her head.
“I know it sounds crazy,”
she said, low-voiced.
“But I just have this feeling . . .”
She made herself look up.
“Cherry’s never met Cassie,”
she said.
Which was obvious.
Of course Cherry hadn’t met Cassie.
Cherry knew that had a sister, but Cassie did not know that had a daughter.
The family knew, but the press did not.
And no one from either camp had seen Cassie, not since that terrible night in Detroit.
“Cherry’s obsessed with the Griffin Sisters.
She’s probably listened to the album a thousand times.
She’s built Cassie up in her head as this tragic hero.”
took another breath.
“She thinks Cassie is everything I’m not.
Talented, and brilliant, and someone who would have encouraged her, instead of trying to keep her away from the industry.”
Isn’t she? imagined her aunt thinking.
“The fun aunt,”
said Bess.
thought it over.
“Sure.
The fun aunt.”
Like Bess had been.
The one who’d let you stay up late and have breakfast for dinner.
The one who’d paint your toenails and wouldn’t worry about getting nail polish on the bedspread.
A fun aunt, she realized, was one more thing she’d deprived Cherry of; one more thing she’d prevented Cassie from becoming.
It was one more piece of the exploding, ongoing disaster that was the Griffin Sisters; one more bit of wreckage to be laid at ’s door.
She saw, with surprise, that Bess was smiling a little.
wondered if her aunt was remembering two little girls cuddled up in her big bed with its pink satin bedspread, putting cotton balls between their toes in preparation for their pedicures.
Two little girls who used to sing each other to sleep.
“You know where Cassie went,”
said .
It wasn’t a question, and Bess didn’t confirm, but she didn’t shake her head either.
“If you know how to get in touch with her, maybe you could ask if she’s heard from Cherry?”
Except how would her daughter know how to find Cassie, when herself did not? Could Cherry have figured it out somehow? Could Bess have told her?
Bess held up her hands, palms out.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know where Cherry is, and I didn’t tell her how to get in touch with your sister,” she said.
“But you know how,” said .
Bess looked at her steadily, a long, tense moment.
Then she nodded.
“Cassie and I spoke after Russell died.
She told me what happened,” she said.
shut her eyes again, hearing what Bess hadn’t said: I know Cassie’s story.
What’s yours? She watched as her aunt turned and shuffled across the kitchen to refill her mug, hearing the spoon clink against the white porcelain as she stirred in honey.
She was remembering a dozen different things, sounds and sensations.
Russell’s hands, gripping her shoulders, the first night they’d slept together.
Russell’s voice, slurred and lust-roughened, asking, Is this what you want? She remembered how triumphant she’d felt, like she’d passed some impossible test, claimed some rich prize.
Other images flickered through her mind.
She remembered looking across the stage in the middle of a performance and seeing Russell watching Cassie, not her.
She remembered watching the roadies setting up before a show and how, at every load-in, Cassie’s piano would move closer and closer to the audience, while her own microphone stand inched farther and farther away.
saw her hand, with long, red nails, on a hotel door’s knob.
She saw her feet, in high-heeled, thigh-high black leather boots, moving along the hotel’s carpeted floor.
She heard Russell calling after her, saying, “, wait, please, let me explain.”
Only he couldn’t, because what explanation could there have been? She could taste her fury, her rage at realizing that she hadn’t passed the test at all, that she was not triumphant, that Cassie had won and she had lost.
It had felt like something clawing in her chest.
It had tasted, she remembered, like hot ashes.
“Oh God,”
whispered.
Bess reached across the table and touched ’s arm.
“Start at the beginning,”
she said.
“That usually works the best.”
gripped her mug, shaking her head.
“I wish none of it had happened,”
she said.
“I wish I’d never . . .”
She stopped talking and gestured, one hand circling.
I wish I’d never asked Cassie to sing with me.
I wish I’d never been in a band.
I wish I’d never tried.
“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,”
said Bess.
She gave ’s arm a squeeze, and her voice was not without sympathy as she said, “You’d better tell someone.
It might as well be me.”