“First of all, Peter DeFiore is Billy’s attorney, not Burt. Peter didn’t mention anything about a ‘united front.’ He said this appearance will last ten minutes, tops. So there’s no reason for all of us to drive two hours there and two hours back for a ten-minute show. Second, Burt’s specialty is wills and trusts. If we were debating the value of our wine collection, I’d ask his advice. But—”

“Stop it, Lawrence. Just stop. Why are you focused on Cassie? Or Burt, for that matter? My son has been falsely accused of a horrific crime. Every iota of your attention should be trained on him. In the meantime, it’s late, so please shower and wake Cassie up. Remind her to wear the Row wool skirt. Oh—stockings, too. She can’t walk into a courtroom with bare legs.”

“Billy is on trial for rape. Cassie’s legs are the least of our problems.” In response, Eleanor turns and stalks off. “Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a conversation.” Lawrence sighs. “Why are you so angry at me, El? I just spent two days in some New Jersey backwater, trying to bring our son home. I resent you saying I’m not focused on him.”

“I am not angry at you. I’m angry at the situation. However, you do have a habit of making terrible situations worse. Your stupid stunt could jeopardize Billy’s entire defense. And then where will we be?”

“Hey guys.” I step into the kitchen and over to the counter, where Maeve is laying out pastries, sliced cantaloupe, and coffee. “I’m here.”

“Cassie!” Whirling around, Lawrence looks startled, almost guilty. “You’re awake.”

“Morning, dear,” Eleanor says with strained brightness. “Sleep well?”

Bustling around us, Maeve hands me an empty mug embossed with the letter C. “Yours,” she says, and I thank her. Over the years, the C, once crimson, has faded to a dull pink. “Poor Billy,” she murmurs. Maeve is sixty-four with translucent gray eyes and pale, paper-thin skin. Like Anton, she’s been in my life since day one. Gathering me in her arms, she kisses my forehead. “You’re too skinny,” she says, her brogue thick even after thirty-odd years in this country.

I hug her tightly. “Promise? Say it again; say, ‘You’re super-skinny, Cassie. I’ve never seen you this skinny. Are you sick? Do you feel okay?’”

She laughs. “You’re terrible.”

Standing at the counter, I fill my mug with coffee, aware that Eleanor and Lawrence are watching me. “So.” I spear a piece of melon. “What’s the latest? Good news? Bad news? Possible windfalls? Last-minute reversals?”

“We’re set,” Lawrence says. “DeFiore texted from the courthouse. Billy is being transported over. Now we’re debating who should drive to Trenton.”

“Why is it a debate? Aren’t we all going?”