In our own ways, Eleanor and I are beginning the long, hard process of making sense of the past. For her, this means accepting that her instincts were wrong; for me, it’s the opposite. We don’t get a happy ending. But it may be a promising start. I recognize that to let Eleanor off the hook is to forsake myself. But to not forgive her means forsaking myself in other ways; it means accepting a life polluted by bitterness and blame.

On Sunday evening, she and I drove from New Haven to the hotel, each in our own car. After a long couple of days filled with unnatural togetherness, I was glad to be alone. In the parking lot, I ran into DeFiore, who’d stopped by to help Billy prep. “Billy is guilty,” I blurted out. To which he replied, unfazed, “I’m optimistic, kiddo. We argued an excellent case.” I suspect DeFiore doesn’t care about my brother’s innocence. Rather, he prefers to win, but he’s lost before and will lose again.

“Thank you for appearing today,” DeFiore says to Billy now, stepping closer to the witness box. “I recognize this is not easy.”

No, it’s not, I think, trying to focus on Billy’s testimony. I’m torn between believing my brother should pay for what he’s done, and my kneejerk need to protect him and satisfy Eleanor. The same way I’m torn between telling the world the truth about Lawrence, and my need to protect him—and myself.

“Lawrence ruined all of you,” Haggerty said once. “Why protect him?”

“How do you figure?” I asked.

“Your childhood. Your ‘days of wonder.’ Three kids, golden beaches, a hidden cove. He destroyed that life. Not just for you. For your brothers too.”

“It’s complicated,” I said, but like in so many other significant ways, I hadn’t considered my brothers.

Lawrence did stop calling, though I admit I continued to check my phone and listen to his messages. He moved into a hotel in the West Village, and although he didn’t say so, he chose his new location with me in mind: the West Village is my favorite part of the city. Eleanor did shut down his bank accounts and credit cards. But Lawrence has money stashed away, which I know because his rainy-day fund was going to tide us over while we waited for my money to come in. Nate and I spoke several times over the weekend. Our calls weren’t long or deep, but they were honest. He was describing how his dad left the Valmont and only packed one bag. “One fucking bag!” Nate couldn’t believe it. “He honestly thinks he’s coming back.”

That’s Lawrence, I told him.