The press is here in full force too. A convoy of news vans block the curb. Reporters mill around the perimeter, bantering with each other as they check their phones. Several are filming lead-ins. One guy in his fifties wears a suit jacket, a tie, and faded jeans. “Tight as you can,” he instructs the cameraman. “Nothing below the waist.”

“It’s Billy Quinn!” someone calls out. “He’s here.”

Spotting us, reporters surge forward. They shout questions at Billy, each a variation on Are you a rapist?

Facing them, DeFiore holds up a hand. “Billy Quinn is innocent. He has taken and passed a polygraph test. We have no other comments at this time.”

The cops bark orders and push back the crowds. “Let ’em by. Move, move!”

We wind through a narrow channel of gawkers. It’s chaotic and claustrophobic, and I try to find Haggerty among the bodies. He hasn’t appeared since the day he ambushed me. For the past month, his lack of contact meant nothing; now, it’s a critical sign. If Haggerty shows up for Billy’s trial, it’s bad news. If he doesn’t, we’ll emerge unscathed.

As always, Lawrence leads the charge. He doesn’t answer any questions, but neither does he cower. He looks directly at the reporters. Come and get me, he taunts them. Give me your worst.

Trailing behind him, I marvel at his public persona. There’s a rise in his arches, a swagger in his hips; nothing to suggest that only a few hours ago, he was slumped on the edge of the bed, un-showered and unshaven, imploring his wife to give in.

Over the weekend, we checked into a swank hotel in nearby Princeton, our home away for the next three weeks. Earlier this morning, I was in my parents’ room borrowing toothpaste when Lawrence’s phone rang. The three of us froze.

Lawrence picked it up. “Good morning, Peter,” he said stiffly.

A giddy DeFiore boomed through the speaker. He had the DA’s final offer. “Anderson agreed to four years!” His voice made Eleanor flinch. In his excitement, he apparently forgot he was talking about prison. “Billy will be out in two, less with good behavior.”

Four years? Eleanor mouthed and shook her head, but Lawrence didn’t react.

She pointed to the phone. Her nails were painted a rose quartz pink to match her lips and cheeks. The custom-blended color, selected by our crisis consultants, is uncharacteristically soft, and makes Eleanor look like an entirely different person. Same with her hair color, which went from socialite gold to relatable honey. Along with newly cut bangs and a mauve cardigan—voilà!—a cold, inaccessible matriarch became a warm, sympathetic mom.

Lawrence leaned in, close to the phone. “We’ll take our chances in court, Peter.”