“Hi, Danny.” “Cassie, hi,” Danny says. “I didn’t know you were home from . . .” “Treatment?” she says. “You can say it, Danny.” It was like her, what, second or even third time in rehab or the psych ward? Cassie is the unlikely black sheep of the Murphy family, and John barely bothers to hide his shame of her. She was the angel once, daddy’s little girl—Terri once admitted to Danny that she was jealous of her big sister—a fine singer of the old folk music, a dancer who won awards at céilís, but then she started drinking, and then it was grass, and then it was all kinds of dope. She was on the
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