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Back When We Were Bright and Beautiful Save as PDF
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. Part Two
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. Part Three
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Jillian Medoff
  72. About the Publisher

“Yes.” Diana’s eyes well up. “We were kissing again. All of this is hazy, but I remember saying ‘No, Billy. I don’t want to do this.’ After that, it goes black. Next, I’m waking up in the hospital. My body ached and I had a cut on my head. I was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants I’d never seen before. My socks and bra were missing. The nurse told me I’d been assaulted. She had to do a rape kit. I couldn’t believe it, but knew it was true.”

“How did you know it was true?”

“I told him ‘no.’” Diana clears her throat. “I said ‘No, I don’t want to do this. Get off me.’” She starts to cry again, but this time makes no noise. “I said no,” she whispers.

Lawrence was right, I decide. We should’ve taken the four years.

The courtroom is silent. In front of me, at the defense table, Billy is shaking his head, but whether it’s because he’s horrified by his behavior or appalled by Diana’s lies is unclear. He just seems flattened.

Lawrence is next to me; Eleanor is on his left. They sit rigidly, actively not touching. With their earlier argument unresolved, anger wafts off their bodies like fumes. Under normal conditions, Lawrence would’ve been down on his knees, begging for her forgiveness. Instead, his jaw is set and he’s grinding his teeth with indignation. He’s furious at Eleanor for not taking the deal.

Fuck her, I bet he’s thinking. Fuck her forever. Catching my eye, he pats my thigh. Then he squeezes my hand three times: I. Love. You.

I don’t respond. My own hand rests on my leg like a dead fish.

Anderson isn’t finished. One by one, he places a series of poster-sized collages on the easels. Each is made up of snapshots taken from the crime scene, the hospital, and the rape kit. The posters are graphic and difficult to look at. But the images are clear. Bruises on Diana’s arms, hips, and thighs. Bloody lacerations on her face. Cuts on her elbows. Welts on her back. Broken capillaries in her eyes. Again, a young woman, unconscious, on the grass.

These easels, starting with the punched walls and ending with the battered girl, tell the story of Billy Quinn and Diana Holly. The hard evidence is laid out chapter by chapter, image by image. While we study them, the courtroom swells with the truth of Billy’s anger: savage, destructive, indelible.

“I have no more questions,” Anderson says then turns to DeFiore. “Your witness.”

Anderson is gloating. Returning to his table, the DA moves with a brand-new nimbleness, as if a tremendous weight has been lifted, as if inside, he is nothing but feathers.

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