My brother is guilty. He raped Diana Holly. The knowledge comes to me fully formed just as Lawrence cries out, “Billy. Son.”

I sit with the idea. I turn it over. Bat it away. My brother brutalized an unconscious woman. Oddly, acknowledging this frees me up. If I can accept this one fact, then I can accept others. No, I caution myself. Do not. But the puzzle has already been solved; I clicked the last piece into place. To pretend otherwise would make me complicit. Part of the conspiracy. Haven’t I been doing this all along? Didn’t I always know deep down about my brother, even if I didn’t want to?

Nate has Billy in a bear hug. Billy shrugs him off. “It’s over,” he says, adjusting his lapels. “I’m good.”

A red bull’s-eye has appeared on Lawrence’s forehead. The wound makes Billy’s guilt public, and allows me to see him as an outsider might. My brother is a young man who assaulted his father and raped his helpless girlfriend. In a selfish way it’s comforting. At least I’m not the only appalling member of our family. I may have behaved unforgivably. But so has my brother. I may have driven him to hurt Diana. But he’s a monster too.

I remain frozen in my chair, the statue of a girl as she shatters. Hearing DeFiore lumber down the hall, I sit with Lawrence, Billy, and Nate as if this is perfectly normal. We’re fine, I scream. This is all very fine. And yet how do I incorporate this new knowledge into my life? More important: What should I do about Diana Holly? Do I announce what I know? Send her an email? Contribute to a victims’ fund?

My brothers return to their places. Heads down, eyes on phones. As soon as DeFiore walks in, Lawrence stands up, enraged. “What the hell are you doing?”

DeFiore’s nostrils flare. “What does it look like? I’m keeping your son out of prison.”

“By telling lies? Disgusting lies. This is my family. I demand that you issue a statement refuting what you said.”

After letting Lawrence rant a little longer, DeFiore asks, “What’s with your head?”

Lawrence touches his temple as if he has no idea. “I walked into the door.”

“Cover that, my friend. Last thing we need is you looking like an abused spouse.” Chuckling, he asks if I have any concealer. “Your dad needs a touchup, Cassie.”

“Wait a second, Peter,” Lawrence says. “You need to explain how—”