“Ask her about Yale,” Nate says. “No one is more impressed with Cassie’s brains than Cassie.”

As we stand up to leave, Billy says, “W-w-wait. I have to tell you sss-something. I quit running. I mean, competing. Last December.”

Lawrence looks at Eleanor. “Did you know?” She shakes her head.

“Why?” I ask. “You love running.”

“It was too much—Diana, school, tutoring. I told you this.”

“I thought you gave up Diana, not track.”

DeFiore lays a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “I’m glad you shared this. It’s just another detail we’ll add to the story.” He turns to the rest of us. “One last thing. This is the most important thing of every important thing I’ve told you. In the coming weeks, people will try to contact you—cops, investigators, reporters. Do not speak to anyone unless I’m there. No one. I cannot stress this enough: keep your mouths shut.”

* * *

That night, we celebrate Lawrence’s birthday. In the cab on the way to Reginald’s, our favorite restaurant on Madison, we make a pact to relax. For one night, no talk of lawyers, trials, or doomsday fears. We reminisce about our childhood birthdays: the time Nate lit a cherry bomb and blew up the cake, Billy peeing on my foot after a jellyfish stung me, sleeping outside in tents, our sacred days in Hawkins Cove. Later, at home, in the celebration room, Lawrence opens his presents (ties, books, more ties). Maeve brings out a black forest cake that says Happy Bday, love Eleanor + your 3 M’s. We sing off-key, lick frosting off our fingers, drink too much wine and for one brief shining moment, the world is ours again.

16

TURNS OUT LAWRENCE WAS RIGHT ABOUT THE MEDIA. A week later, when the grand jury votes for indictment, the press gets wind of the case. The hits start slowly—small mentions on a local blog, a brief mention in AM New York—then snowball. Six hours later, by the time the New York Times and Associated Press have gotten ahold of the story, my brother is everywhere.

Guilty, guilty, guilty, I can read between the reporters’ lines. Almost all the articles home in on his privilege, showcase his All-Ivy record (9.8 seconds in the 100-meter dash), and allude to unspecified “emotional problems.” Diana Holly, by contrast, barely registers. “Biology major,” the papers call her, adhering to the laws about not naming a rape accuser. “Women’s shelter volunteer. Exceptional student.” Worst of all, there’s no references to their prior relationship.

Enraged, I call DeFiore. “How can they do this? She was the one who harassed him. She invited him to the party. She forced herself on him.”

He’s unruffled. “Be patient,” he assures me. “Everything will come out at trial.”

Will it? I wonder. Everything?