"She don't look like the hurting type, chief. More like the kind to throw herself off a bridge, or somethin'."
"If she does that, put it in the report. But until then, just do what I ask you to and treat her like she's dangerous."
He whistles. "That was cold."
"My concern is for Leo."
"Oh yeah. You're just tryin' to get by," he says in a sing-song voice.
Yes.
Yes, I am.
***
When Harvey stops in later to discuss the Montgomery situation, I decide not to give him Leo's old phone. It's been a long time since I spoke to Rachel; I don't want her to disturb my newfound peace, even if it's short-lived. She had her chance and she fucked it up, but no doubt has enjoyed a cushy, comfortable life courtesy of the guilt money my mother lavished on the Fordhams after The Incident. Working at the library...yeah, that's not paying an NY rent.
So I'm keeping the damn phone and if she so much as lays a hand on Leo, I'm picking it up to call. Rachel might've had fifteen years of therapy, but she's not over me. How do I know this? Because she hasn't exposed me. When she could.
You kinda have to feel for Rachel. I can see why you might. I mean, I'm just the big bad, stringing up the puppets and making them dance. If I told you that she asked for it, you'd call me a misogynist, and if I told you that it's just the way the cookie crumbles, you'd call me a cynic. Go right ahead, grasshoppers.
You know how I like a little fight.
TWENTY ONE YEARS AGO
Home
Aged 11
Three jagged cuts on the inside of my thigh. I wish they were neater.
Mom and Dr Brody wish they weren't there at all. I can hear them fighting from downstairs, and they know I can hear them. That might even be the point. Tissue paper stems the slow ooze of blood; on TV, it's a lot quicker. Proper gushing. I need to grow bigger balls and just do it real hard.
It stings. I haven't decided yet if I like that, but then I'm kinda woozy. Huh.
"I'm not stitching him up!" Dr Brody yells, incredulous. "For the love of God, can't you hear yourself? He needs to go to an ER!"
"It will go on record," she hisses back.
This is what you get for dating a doctor, Mom. I warned you. You didn't like it, but I told you so.
Dr Brody is pacing. I can see him now, his bald head shining under the lights of the dining room and his stupid little beard bobbing up and down when he talks. "I can't do this anymore. You need to take him back to that therapist."
"Why? She said he was fine, he is fine--"
"Tell me what he just told you. Say it again, out loud. Tell me his excuse!"
"Why are you doing this to me?" she whines. "This isn't my fault!"
When Mom barged into the bathroom ten minutes ago, she saw the cuts I'd made with her razor. I'm practising, I told her. And I don't even know why I said that, but it felt right coming out of my mouth.
Mom loses it all the time...just not in front of other people. We have to hide, see. But it boils over sometimes. We can't help it. Tonight, we're like dominoes; I fell and I pushed her into being a bitch to Dr Brody. The cuts are open and my sticky red insides are falling out and Mom and I, we're just exposed.
"He's not fine. He's not goddamn fine, Em. He exhibits seriously worrying behaviours."
"Don't you dare label my son like that," she snaps. "You have no idea."
There's a dull thump, as if someone just struck a wall. "No idea? How can you not notice his issues? You're his mother. I swear, I've tried with him—you know I've tried!—but he's a closed shop."
When something bad happens to me and Mom, I try to learn from it. And what I've learned here is that although Mom and Dr Brody have only been dating for like, four months and two weeks, the asshole has been watching me. I need to hide a lot better.
"He's been through a lot. You know that. His father just disappeared."
"But it isn't just me he's dysfunctional with, Em. You watch him—he doesn't form relationships with boys, or men. Not real ones. And he surrounds himself with fawning girls that he gets to do his dirty work. That incident at the little league thing, that fucking chilled me. He needs help."
"He's going to play football instead." There's a soothing tone to her voice, as if she can bring him down from this. "It'll be fine, baby."
"You think that's the point? Seriously?"
"I don't know what the point is. What are you saying? You think...you think he's gay?"
He laughs, high-pitched and crazy. "No, I don't think he's gay. I think he's a manipulative little shit who's upstairs cutting himself, and worse, the only person you're worried about is yourself!"