Flattered, Lawrence got excited; finally, someone saw how awful this experience has been, how hard it is to keep quiet. “Not all reporters are ruthless, Raffi. Most just want the story, which I can appreciate. As you may know, I was a media consultant for years, and have great respect for the news. But the reporters who spread lies? Who serve as judge, jury, and executioner? I’d love to give those guys a piece of my mind. Where does this end, Raffi?”

“Great question.” Raffi raised his camera. “Quick quote? If you could appeal to the press’s better nature, what would you tell them?”

“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Briefly, please. You’re in a position to make a difference, Lawrence. Unlike most men, you’re eloquent and persuasive. Lots of fathers and sons are suffering. Can you imagine how just a few words from a man like you will help? Please, Lawrence?”

And just like I had, Lawrence spoke up. “To members of the news media, I respect your profession, but I want you to understand that a boy’s future is at stake.” Making his plea for restraint, his smile was wistful. “My son is petrified. He’s just a kid, only twenty-two. I implore you to reserve judgment until all the facts are out and the truth becomes clear. You’ll see that this is a case of anger and revenge. A vindictive, irrational woman is bitter a brief affair has ended, and she’s retaliating by destroying my son’s future.”

So.

The press exploded. As soon as Raffi Alexander uploaded the clip, Lawrence’s quote was shared, reposted, and retweeted 1.1 million times. “Dad went viral,” Nate says. “The guy’s a fucking meme. He may have screwed Billy beyond repair.”

After hanging up with Nate, I call Lawrence, who feels awful, of course. He’s desperate to make another statement, but DeFiore forbade it.

“Henceforth,” Lawrence says, quoting DeFiore, “all communication from the Lawrence Quinns to the outside world is shut down. Peter also ordered us to stay out of sight. Well, not you, Cassie, since you’re never here anyway.”

“I’ll come home,” I offer, ignoring his dig. “Nate and Billy’s birthdays are next week. I want to celebrate with everyone. Triple-cakes. Triple-parties. Three Musketeers.”

“It’s okay. No one is feeling celebratory these days.”

“Tell her she doesn’t need to come home,” I hear Nate say. “But she should send gifts.”

“Speak soon,” Lawrence tells me. “Love you, kiddo.”

* * *

Marcus’s calls have become more frequent. Always in the dead of night. Always when I’m sleeping. “I can’t stand this. I can’t stand that you left.” He’s crying, which thrills and disgusts me. To give in and go back is slow suicide. He has a wife, three kids, two houses, a job, all of which he’s devoted to. “Please, Cassie, come back.”