At the moment, we’re all here together. I’m seated between Nate and Eleanor. Occasionally, they’ll each take a hand. Partly for comfort, partly to show the court where their loyalties lie. Lawrence is two people away from me, on the other side of the Bowtie. Billy, the rapist, is on the stand. We’re the Quinns. Five strong. A united front.

* * *

An hour later, Billy is deep into his testimony. “Yes,” he says to DeFiore. “I fell hard for Diana. When we met, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.”

My brother doesn’t possess the full spectrum of his father’s charisma, but he can perform on command. Today, he’s peak Billy, everybody’s All American. His gray suit is new and almost a perfect fit. Over the weekend, I heard him tell Eleanor he had no time for alterations. “First suit I ever bought by myself, Mom. I mean, without you. Deacon was with me.”

Eleanor’s voice twinkled like chimes. “Another milestone. I’m proud of you. And Deacon?”

“Two suits, shirts, sweaters—the whole deal. I used your house account.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”

Tailored or not, the suit is a stunner. Billy always looks great, which is a gift or a curse. According to social scientists, handsome men are better liked, more highly valued, and perceived as morally superior to their unattractive peers. Handsome serial killers, for instance, are less likely to be seen as suspects. So, in the right setting, a guy like my brother, like Lawrence, could get away with murder.

Today, handsome as he is, Billy looks waxy. He used too much pomade, so his hair is stiff and shiny. Under the lights, he appears coated in plastic, like a mannequin.

Nate is thinking the same thing. “What’s wrong with his face?” he whispers.

“It’s not his face. It’s his hair.”

“He looks demented.”

“You’re demented,” I whisper, out of habit.

For the next two hours, Billy answers questions about Diana, Princeton, running, medical school, and porn. Meanwhile, Nate and I play Hangman. I solve his puzzle quickly: N A T E T H E G R E A T I S K I N G. But he takes longer to solve mine: B I L L Y Q U I N N D I D I T.

Watching his face, I expect him to cross out the letters. Instead, he lets them stand, and wads up the paper. “Thought you were a true believer,” I whisper.

“I was until I wasn’t.” Nate shrugs. “Still, I don’t want him to go to prison.”

“He might.” I glance at Anderson, who is champing at the bit, eager for DeFiore to wrap up so he can crucify Billy on cross.

“Yes,” Billy is saying. “Diana told me about Cassie and my father. But I didn’t want to believe it.”

“And now?” DeFiore asks.