“To repeat,” DeFiore says, “everything you know about their breakup came from Diana, correct? So, you have no idea if Billy broke up with her. Or if it was the other way around, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Liza appears stricken. “Yes, that is correct.”

“Let’s move on. Ms. Franklin-Wallace, when asked about the party on March 24, you stated that you and Diana had a vodka tonic before Billy showed up. How many drinks, exactly, did you and Diana have?”

Liza leans forward. But she’s lost her confidence, and her voice is inaudible. Twice, the judge asks her to speak up. “Four,” she says.

“Four drinks total?”

Liza falters. “No.”

“No what, Ms. Franklin-Wallace?”

“Four drinks each.” She pauses. Her eyes dart from DeFiore to Fleming and back to DeFiore. “And two shots of whiskey.”

“Two shots total?”

“No.”

“No what, Ms. Franklin-Wallace?”

“Two shots each.”

“So, to restate: by the time my client arrived, Diana had consumed four vodka tonics and two shots of whiskey. In your opinion, how did the alcohol affect her?”

“She was relaxed.” Liza’s face relaxes too. “We were dancing. We laughed a lot. She was happy. Upbeat.”

“Anything else? Loopy? Forgetful? Excited to talk? What’s the word? I can’t remember. It means free, but that’s not it. Unconfined?” DeFiore fumbles but smarty-pants Liza is all too eager to help.

“Uninhibited?” Liza’s hand flies to her mouth.

DeFiore nods. “Yes, thank you. Uninhibited. Diana was uninhibited. So, to restate: by the time my client arrived, Diana had consumed four vodka tonics and two shots of whiskey. She danced. She laughed. She was happy, upbeat, and uninhibited.” He looks at the gallery then the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I was—”

McKay says, “You may step down, Ms. Franklin-Wallace.”

A gratifying day’s end. DeFiore has accomplished his goal: cast doubt on Diana’s version of events. Haggerty hasn’t shown up, another positive sign. Adjourned until Monday, we pile into our cars and return to New York.

* * *

“Busy, Princess?” Standing at my bedroom door, Nate holds an ancient Scrabble box. “Want to hang out?”

I take out my earbuds. “I haven’t played in forever.”

“We can play Scrabble. Or . . .” He flips open the lid; inside are two joints.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re lying on my carpet, studying the ceiling.

“I still can’t get over the size of this room.” Nate exhales a plume of smoke. We watch it dissolve into nothing. “You were so spoiled.”

He is correct. A room fit for a princess. Bedroom, office nook, walk-in closet, and a bathroom suite that could house a family of four. It was lonely though. Still is, sometimes.

“Nate, it’s been twenty years. Let it go.”

Moments pass. How many is anyone’s guess.

“So, what do you think?” he asks eventually.

“About what?”