Groton marked a before and after in my brother’s life. He left for school a dreamy, gentle adolescent, my twin and soulmate, and returned a confident, if sullen, young man, one I barely recognized. He was still committed to medicine, though his new goal was pediatrics, partly because of his stutter, partly for reasons I’ll never comprehend. I am Billy’s sister. I know his habits, his favorite foods, and his preferences in music, books, and movies. I can tell you he wants to be a doctor and loves to run, but I can’t tell you why. Once Billy graduated from high school, I had no insight into his interior life. My not-knowing implies a lack of curiosity or caring, which isn’t true. I am curious. I care deeply. But I don’t know how to recapture our old relationship. I realize he’s a man, I can see that he’s different. And yet, at the same time, I can’t believe the small boy I grew up with, the tender kid who loved Sesame Street, has been accused of rape.

The next morning, I seek him out. I’m here, I should make an effort. So I put on gym shorts and sneakers, and stand in the door to his room. “Hey, Elmo. Let’s go for a run.”

He’s lying on his side, staring at the wall. “It’s too hot.”

“Then we’ll walk. We can carry parasols.”

He doesn’t respond, so I move to his bed and lie down. It’s a queen-sized bed, so there’s more than enough room—or there would be if not for the books, papers, half-eaten sandwiches, and loose bags of chips.

Eleanor must be exhausted. She’d never allow this much clutter otherwise. After Billy’s arraignment, Lawrence and Nate cleaned out his dorm room and gym locker, and brought home a carload of suitcases, boxes, and bags. Billy dumped the entire haul on his floor and hasn’t touched it since. Clothes are strewn over his desk and chair, dresser drawers hang open, and sneakers are scattered across the carpet like stepping-stones. His plastic dinosaurs, baseball cards, and rock samples are hidden behind stacks of textbooks, water pipes, and a bong.

It kills me to see Billy so unhappy. Except for twice-weekly psychiatrist appointments and meetings with DeFiore, he does nothing except watch TV on his laptop and sleep. He doesn’t even look like himself. His once-lean body is doughy. His face is bloated and shadowed with stubble. His eyes are dull and unfocused. He smells foul.

“Come on, Billy. We have a trial to prep for. DeFiore says first impressions are critical. So, you have to clean up and get in shape.”

“We? Since when do we have a trial, Cassie?”

His anger catches me off guard. “What does that mean?”