I want to discuss Anderson’s statement, but don’t want to be the one to bring it up. I wonder if the DA knows about Marcus. Does it matter if he does? That’s my secret, not Billy’s.

Nate is sprawled across a chair, jacket off, tie unknotted, absorbed in his phone. His face has already started to shadow, and I bet DeFiore will tell him to shave again before the day is over. Next to him, Billy has donned his astronaut headphones and stares into space. His blue eyes are glassy and vacant, as if he’s been drugged.

I try to find a comfortable position. The leather chairs are plush, but nothing feels right. Why am I the only one freaking out?

“You kids okay?” Lawrence asks from across the room. He’s at the head of the table, the chairman of the board, with Eleanor, his trusted consigliere, by his side.

Do they know the secret? They’ve seen all the evidence. They must know what Anderson is referring to. I’m kicking myself for missing the last few months of war room sessions.

Lawrence’s shirtsleeves are rolled up. A sliver of light peeks through the blinds and highlights the dark hair on his forearms. I focus on them to help steady myself.

“We’re fine,” I choke out, just to fill the air with sound. “Curious about Anderson’s strategy. Some of his statements were very . . . I don’t know . . . provocative.”

“He’s making the whole thing up,” Eleanor says flatly. She’s gazing into a mirror, reapplying her sweet pink lipstick.

I can’t get used to her bangs; I startle every time I glance her way. A younger, gentler woman has replaced the Eleanor who raised me.

“Can he do that?” she asks. “Just pull facts out of the air?”

I assume she’s referring to the story about her depraved son raping his unconscious girlfriend until she adds, “Seven hundred million? Where did he come up with that? We’re nowhere near the vicinity.”

“We knew this would happen,” Lawrence announces. “They’ll say anything to malign us.” He makes it seem like he’s responding to Eleanor, but in fact, he’s sending me a message. We’ll be fine, kid. Trust me.

“So he’s allowed to lie?” Nate asks. “Are there, like, no rules at all? Why can’t Peter stop him? Or get the judge to stop him?”

“That’s not how trials work, son. But Peter will present our case, and when he does, he’ll make it right.” Again, he’s saying this to comfort me. But he still doesn’t mention the secret.

The food arrives, but no one moves. A platter of sandwiches sits on a rolling cart, along with a bowl of fruit, bags of chips, and a plate of brownies. Wrapped in plastic, everything looks revolting.

“Billy,” I say casually. Then I lean over, nudge him with my finger.