The terms of Lawrence’s bail agreement prohibit him from contacting me. Even so, two weeks after his arrest, out on bond, he called me and my brothers and begged us to see him. Neither Nate nor Billy agreed, but after a week of yes-no-maybe-I-don’t-know, I said yes, okay, I guess.

Lawrence is living in a plush hotel near the Hudson River, far from the Valmont. We agree to meet on Monday afternoon in the lobby restaurant. At four, Nate walks me to the hotel entrance, but that’s as far as he’ll go.

“I can’t.” He gestures to the bar next door. “I’ll wait here.”

“I’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”

“It not, I’ll come find you.” A promise and a threat. Nate knows that without it, I’ll waffle. I’ll stay too long. I’m not nearly as tough as I think I am.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

“I’ll be here,” he assures me.

Lawrence is in the back, in a corner booth. It’s almost Christmas, and the walls are decorated with sparkly tinsel and blinking lights. Candles glow on the tabletops. It’s lovely and romantic, and yet, the room has an air of tragedy. Or maybe it’s just that this feeling is evoked in me when Lawrence lifts his head. “Cassie,” he says. His voice cracks.

“Lawrence.” Numbness permeates my body even as I start to tremble. What now? What next? Panting, I grab the back of a chair to steady myself.

A couple of years ago, Eleanor told me that when her parents reached the end of their lives, she was forced to think of them as strangers. She cared for them with the diligence of a loving daughter, but these cranky senior citizens, who barked orders and called her Eloise, weren’t her real mother and father. She said it was the only way she could handle her sorrow and absorb the enormity of what was happening to them, and to her. “They weren’t just dying,” she explained. “They were also leaving me behind.”

I study Lawrence’s face. He still has the same arrogant lift to his chin, the same chiseled jaw. But the light is gone. His skin is ashen. His blue eyes are cloudy. He’s a shadow of the man I knew.

“You look so beautiful.” His cheeks are wet. “My Forever Girl.” On the table, there’s a gift wrapped in elegant gold paper with a silk bow. He pushes it toward me.

I thank him but don’t touch it. This man is a stranger, I tell myself. I’ve never met him before. I focus on the age spots near his nose. They make him look old.

The next fifteen minutes are awkward, with frequent pauses and small talk that trails off. He doesn’t appear nervous, but I can feel his strain. As for me, my body continues to shake.