No one spoke, but their eyes relayed their confusion.

Nat tried to remain calm as she recounted the day of the pool party. After Fern had doused Nat with her drink, Gabe had taken her upstairs where she had removed her wet top and donned a shirt of Violet’s. (She left out the fact that she and Gabe had been about to have sex in Violet’s room when the younger girl entered, professed her romantic feelings, and kissed Nat on the lips.) Nat explained that Gabe had put her wet shirt and bikini top into a plastic bag. She recalled him handing it to her before he drove her to catch the bus back to the city.

“I distinctly remember the logo on the bag,” she said. “It was from a specialty deli. It had an overflowing cornucopia on it.”

Hawley said, “So how did this T-shirt end up in an Upper East Side dumpster with the murder weapon?”

“When I got back to the city, I went to a bar,” she said excitedly. “Maybe I left the stained shirt there? Or I could have left it on the subway on the way home.”

“And, someone found it and planted it at the crime scene?” The attorney’s tone was understandably skeptical.

“No. . . .” Nat was flustered. “Maybe I took the shirt home and it got lost in the clutter? Someone broke into my apartment. He could have taken the shirt and planted it at the scene.”

“But you didn’t report the break-in to police.”

“No, because nothing was taken.” She glanced sheepishly at her mom. Nat had already admitted that she’d fabricated the laptop theft.

The female attorney looked up from her papers. “You told Detective Correa that your pendant was stolen during the break-in.”

“I—I was confused,” Nat stammered, her face burning. “But there was a footprint on my bed. A bigger shoe than mine. The police must have photographed it.”

“There’s nothing in the reports about a break-in or a strange footprint,” the male associate contributed.

Her mom added, “I changed Natalie’s sheets when I first arrived. I didn’t notice a footprint on the soiled ones when I took them to the laundry.”

Panic gripped her. The window of hope was closing. “Did anyone talk to Cole Doberinsky? He was here. He was stalking me.”

The sleek blond lawyer looked at her file. “Cole Doberinsky was located in Portland, Oregon,” she said. “He has a solid alibi for the time of the murder.”

But someone had been in her apartment. Nat had been distraught, drinking heavily, but she had not fantasized the break-in to get Gabe’s attention. The footprint was not simply a figment of her imagination. Was it?

The female associate continued. “Mr. Doberinsky says you arranged to have him badly beaten, leaving him with permanent damage to his right eye. He also submitted a Facebook message into evidence. You threatened to kill him.”

They didn’t believe her. And she couldn’t blame them. It all sounded so far-fetched, a desperate grab at innocence. She’d told so many lies, kept so many secrets . . . she didn’t know what was true anymore. And suddenly, she realized it didn’t matter what was true. It only mattered if she could prove it.