DeFiore was right too. As we get closer to Billy’s arraignment on April 17, the hits multiply and metastasize, and we are deluged by reporters, bloggers, op-ed writers, columnists, and TV journalists. They phone, text, and email us. They contact family friends, relatives in far-flung locations, and acquaintances we barely know.

“Do not read the news,” he reminds us. “Do not talk to a soul.”

I can’t help myself. Scrolling through headlines, I spot one in Vanity Fair—“Ivy Runner Can’t Outrace Rape Charge”—and lose hours in a Google black hole. That I can’t set the record straight kills me. My desire to talk becomes a need, then an urge. I’m twitchy all the time from biting my tongue.

For the next three weeks, the five of us hunker down at home. Outside, reporters and paparazzi converge on the street, angling for pictures, sound bites, any bits of news. We hire a security detail, including a bodyguard for Billy. Soon, I’m climbing the walls. Anton sneaks me down to the parking lot in the super-secret staff elevator, and I escape to New Haven for a few days. My apartment is small: two bedrooms, one bathroom, and no furniture to speak of. But it’s private, quiet, and entirely my own. While I’m there, I make up missed exams, turn in late assignments, and try to pretend everything is fine, fine, fine. Before I leave, I drop off keys for the doorman, who’s promised to pick up my mail. “I’ll be back,” I assure him and reassure myself. “I still live here.”

As I’m catching up at school, Eleanor, Lawrence, and Nate are questioned by the police, individually then together. DeFiore and Felicia accompany them to deflect questions and guide their responses. When I ask Lawrence over FaceTime if I should reach out to the police, too, he looks at me like I’m demented. “Why would you do that?” he asks. “Never offer unsolicited information.”