While I’m away, Nate calls with updates. DeFiore is working hard to make a deal, but so far, no dice. The DA won’t agree to any terms unless they include a state prison stint and sex offender registration. We won’t agree to any terms but “not guilty.” On this subject, at least, we’re all united as a family, certain of Billy’s innocence and ready to fight as long as it takes. Privately, Lawrence continues to protest a trial, but publicly he’s a man on a mission. He’s in charge, and Nate—who’s taken a leave from Bessemer—is his deputy. They speak with DeFiore’s team several times a day, follow up on research, and play out scenarios. Eleanor is doing her part to shore up support. “I’m so grateful you reached out,” she says on the phone. “Yes, it’s shocking. Yes, the girl is terribly damaged. Yes, we should get together. Yes, this horrible experience will end very soon.”

* * *

Suddenly I see cops everywhere. Driving back from New Haven, I stop at a bodega near Columbia. A gauntlet of police is blocking the door. Unable to find a spot, I double-park by a hydrant. I expect one of them to bark move your car! But they’re engrossed in each other, drinking coffee and laughing, and I move through the huddle like a ghost.

In the back, I spot a familiar figure. He’s turned away, scanning the glass cases. But I recognize Powell Porter’s hulking shoulders and meaty neck. He’s one of Nate’s oldest friends.

“How about Heineken?” Powell is asking his date, whose face I can’t see. From behind, swaddled in a puffy coat, she looks tiny. Her shoulder-length blond hair is magnificent, the perfect blend of honey highlights and gold lowlights. “I’ll get you whatever you want,” he adds, “as long as it’s Heineken,” then laughs at his own joke.

The girl is talking on the phone. Hearing her voice, I realize it’s Avery, Avery Walker. My former best friend.

Powell and Avery are infinitely unimportant to me. Yet running into them, unexpectedly and ill-prepared, throws me back to high school as if no time has elapsed. I try to slip out of the store, but it’s too late. “Cassie? Hey, Cassandra Quinn—wait up!” I swivel around. “Powell?” I sound surprised and delighted to see him. “Oh my God!” Thankfully, Avery is still in the back, on her phone.

Powell, like all of Nate’s friends, is a well-groomed social animal with excellent posture. He has ice-blue eyes, tight blond curls, and a chiseled jaw. His features, which were adorable on a small boy, give him a hard edge as a man. “This is crazy!” he says. “I just spoke to Nate. He’s been keeping me up to date on Billy. I still can’t fucking believe it.”