Seated next to me, Lawrence’s body trembles with desire. He knocked on my door last night, late. He must have been desperate, knowing the whole family was home, but taking the risk, anyway. I pretended to be asleep, still angry with him. In a few days, I’ll ask about the video he showed me. He’ll offer a non-apology. If I did, I’m sure it was meant to be educational. I don’t remember, Cassie. It was so long ago. Regardless, I’m sorry if you misinterpreted my intentions. I’ll let him twist as long as I can. Then I’ll give in. Lawrence and I have a long history. We’re not together today, but tomorrow is tomorrow. There are thresholds you cross when you love someone. You make allowances. You forgive the unforgivable. You sacrifice yourself for his pleasure. Especially after all he has given you.

Eleanor finally speaks. “Lawrence, please.” Her voice is tight. “Shut the fuck up.”

The next morning, DeFiore stops by for brunch and a pep talk. Cross-examining Diana has revitalized him, and he’s full of enthusiasm in his Jets sweatshirt and grungy khakis. Digging into his French toast, he tells us to buck up. “We’re in the catbird seat, Quinn family. It’s the bottom of the ninth, we’ve got a man on second, a runner on third, and no outs.”

“At least you’re not overconfident,” I say.

DeFiore cracks a smile. “Hey, hey, hey.” He points his syrupy fork first at me, then at Lawrence. “Enough with the negativity. You need to shine, shine, shine come Monday. This is our last stand, my friends, our Battle of Little Bighorn, our Alamo—”

“Those were bloodbaths,” Nate says.

“It’s a metaphor, Smart Guy.” DeFiore swallows. “Okay, here’s what’s next. It took Anderson eight days to drag out his case, but I can wrap up in five. My goal is to finish by Friday, so the jury will appreciate our expediency.”

“Five days is impossible,” Lawrence says, and Billy rolls his eyes.

“It’s possible, Lar. We have half the number of witnesses. More importantly, Thanksgiving is the week after next, and McKay will sequester the jury after we rest. So, if we finish by Friday, they’ll take the weekend to deliberate then hand in their decision by Wednesday, latest, before the long holiday weekend.”

“How do you know this for sure?” I ask.

“Nothing is ‘for sure,’” he replies. “I’ve just seen patterns over the years. Juries will belabor a guilty verdict, especially if it means prison. But they’ll gladly vote ‘not guilty’ if it means we wrap up by turkey time.”

“Well, Peter. You’re the expert.” Lawrence’s contempt is obvious.

“You’re right, Lar,” DeFiore snaps. “I am the fucking expert. And as the expert, I’ve decided I want you, Cassie, and Billy to testify.”

“Not me?” Nate asks.