Lawrence is holding a wineglass; an empty bottle sits on the floor. Clearly, the stress is crushing him. His hair is matted, his cheeks are sunken. There’s a dusting of white stubble on his chin. He looks beaten down.

I shut off the light and sit down on the couch.

“Have a glass of wine,” he says.

“Nothing for me, thanks.” I don’t like to drink with Lawrence, but I’ll keep him company. I glance at the TV. “Any news about Billy?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet, but it’s coming. Just watch. By mid-September—boom. The whole thing will explode again.”

“You still think he should take a plea?” I look at the screen instead of at him.

“Well, Cass, here’s what will happen if he doesn’t. The press will ramp up their efforts. They will enter this house, take out their knives, and carve up the walls. They will expose every intimate detail they find, meaningful or not, and trump up a story to get readers. Clicks and eyeballs—that’s the news model. The public will hang Billy weeks before his trial even starts.”

“And Billy will go to prison forever.”

“And yes, your brother will go to prison. You know what else? The Stockton-Quinn foundation will lose any hope of funding. No one will offer Nate a job. My clients will dry up. Eleanor will be ostracized. God knows what will happen to you—or where any of us will live once we’re forced out of here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Billy will get out of prison eventually. When he does, there’s no way these hypocritical Valmont fucks will allow a registered sex offender to live in the building.”

Stupidly, I hadn’t considered this.

“We can make a deal,” Lawrence says. “Yes, Billy will plead guilty, that’s awful. But Peter got Anderson down to five years and said they might fold on the registry.”

“You’re dreaming if you think Anderson will give up the sex registry. I’m sorry, Lawrence, but Eleanor is right. Billy should go to trial. I’m sticking with Eleanor on this one.” Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor. I repeat her name to piss him off. His willingness to forsake his son disgusts me. Grow a pair, I want to snap. Don’t be such a coward.

“If we do, we will forever be known as Lawrence Quinn, father of convicted rapist William Quinn; Eleanor Quinn, mother of convicted rapist; Nathaniel Quinn, brother of convicted rapist; Cassandra—”

“My name is Forrester. I’m not a Quinn, remember? You just let me use that name so I can pretend I’m a part of this family. It’s not real.”

Lawrence’s eyes water as if I smacked him. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” His tone is nasty.