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Back When We Were Bright and Beautiful
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. Part Two
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. Part Three
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Jillian Medoff
  72. About the Publisher

“Since when?” I’m shocked. “Billy and Diana’s relationship is the root of the whole case!”

“Unfortunately, it’s not as cut-and-dried as we thought,” Lawrence says.

“Which means what, Lawrence? Specifically?”

Everyone’s on edge, including DeFiore, who’s barely speaking to me. Granted, he’s not speaking to anyone, but when I’m around, he loves to flirt; he tells me that I’m brilliant, I’m a knockout, if only he were ten years younger. It’s unnecessary and infuriating. But I smile and stay quiet—sometimes I even flirt back—because I can’t risk insulting him.

“Princeton has no record of Diana stalking Billy,” Lawrence says sourly. He gestures toward Martinez. “You did the legwork. You tell her.”

“Your brother claimed the girl snuck into his dorm, showed up in his classes, made a nuisance of herself. But none of this was ever reported.”

“So what, Paul? That’s one small piece of a larger story.”

“For Christ’s sake, Cassie,” Nate interjects. “That piece is called proof. And we don’t have it.”

“But Peter said we didn’t have to prove anything; we only have to defend. Right?” I turn to DeFiore for support. “We need to show the jury what kind of person Diana is. I told you about when she was in our house last November? I caught her holding a vase, checking the bottom to see where it was from. She’s obsessed with money.”

DeFiore doesn’t respond. The room is silent.

“Peter, I told you about that; how bizarre she acted.” I don’t want to badger him, but this is important. “Remember?”

Suddenly, DeFiore shouts at me. “Cassie, enough! Knock it off.” His eyes are blazing. “You don’t know shit.” He is pissed, beyond pissed, and fed up. Peter DeFiore, Esquire, is a stone-cold killer, I see it now, a feral savage who will fuck you, hard, if you get in his way. “So please shut up for one fucking minute.”

My face burns. “I was just making an observation,” I say quietly. DeFiore’s angry outburst humiliates me, a feeling that’s compounded by Lawrence’s approving nods. He can’t rein me in either, so he appreciates DeFiore taking control. When Lawrence looks at me, he has an air of triumph that unsettles me. My pulse speeds up. My thoughts skip. I start to fracture and soon the room feels unsafe, like the web holding the world together is coming loose. Just leave, I tell myself. Go back to school and stay there.

“Despite your fascination with CSI reruns,” DeFiore is saying . . .

Law and Order, I think.

“. . . you’re not a fucking lawyer. I’m a fucking lawyer. You didn’t hire me to show the jurors who Billy Quinn is. You hired me to show them the man they want Billy Quinn to be.”

But who is Billy Quinn? I mean, who is anyone, really?

19