I know nothing about the criminal justice system. But I do know Diana, and it seems patently wrong that the cops can lock Billy up without knowing the facts. This is a woman who threatened him when he broke up with her, who stalked him across campus. A few times, she even snuck into his dorm room while he was in class, and was curled up in his bed, pretending to be asleep, when he returned. Billy was so disturbed, he called security. Meanwhile, he’s the one in jail; the one who gave up his fingerprints, DNA, blood—the works.

If Billy’s been hauled in for questioning, I can tell you exactly how that scene played out: four husky cops working over one lean boy, rapid-fire questions, blinding lights, scary threats. “I am inn . . .” Billy will stumble. “Inn . . .” He’ll chew his words, close his eyes. Finally, he’ll give up. “Ok-k-kay. Ok-k-k-kay.” Billy will agree to anything. He’ll even confess to a crime he didn’t commit if it means he can stop talking.

When I imagine Billy behind bars, I picture places like Angola or Folsom, where he rots in the hole or gets shanked from behind. If it was me or Nate, I’d worry, of course, but wouldn’t spin worst-case scenarios. First of all, I’m female. I have breasts. My survival instincts are stiletto sharp. Similarly, Nate, with his wolfish smile and kingpin’s charisma, would have his new inmate buddies tunneling him out by lunch. But Billy is softer than we are, more easily breakable.

Look, Billy and Nate are my brothers, and I love them beyond the beyond, but I’m able to see us objectively, dispassionately. To say our lives aren’t charmed is a lie. Doors swing open simply because we’re white, wealthy, and blessed with good genes. It’s easy to judge us, I know, because I judge myself all the time. Even so, tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Like many families, rich and poor, we’ve faced catastrophic loss, and, equally crippling, lack of purpose. Each of us has suffered; Billy most of all. To say otherwise is also a lie. My point is, you can have everything and still not have enough.

“Billy’s in trouble,” I say to Nate, who’s still on the phone. I think about our parents, scrambling for answers. I’ve called them both, several times, but they’ve been radio silent, which is unusual—and frightening. “This won’t end well for any of us.”

“Have faith, Princess.” (When I was little, my nickname was Forever Girl or Sweet Girl, which Nate turned into Sour Girl, Sour Patch, Sour Pickle, Princess Pickle, or just plain Princess.) “We’re the Quinns. Nothing can break us. All for one and one for all, remember?”

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