This is Billy’s story. But if I were the one telling it, I would start with Nate’s call. For me, that’s the pivot point between before and after; the moment I was, for lack of a better expression, jolted awake.

“Cassie? You there?” Nate, my older brother, is shouting into the phone. He’s back in New York, and he’s frantic. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours.”

“I’m sorry. I was in the library. I shut off my—”

“Cassie, listen, okay? Something awful happened to Billy.”

Nate is talking so fast his sentences bleed together. I make out the word rape, but that can’t be right. Then he says it again.

“Billy was raped?” This can’t be true. Our younger brother isn’t just strong; he’s also scrappy as hell. “Is this a joke? If so, it’s not funny.”

“Come on, Cassandra. Billy wasn’t raped, he was arrested for rape.” His voice is tinged with antipathy. “I wish I were joking. The girl is out for blood. She . . .” Trailing off, he leaves me to twist.

At twenty-five, Nate is a typical big brother, as bossy as he is protective. I’m twenty-three, and Billy is twenty-two. Billy and I are Irish twins; we’ve been inseparable our whole lives.

“Who’s the girl, Nate?” I ask, though I fear I already know.

“Diana Holly.”

Oh, shit. My body stiffens like I’m girding for battle. If Diana Holly is involved, something is very wrong.

“Yes,” Nate agrees, though I’ve said nothing. “You’re right.”

Our family is partial to silence, but like many siblings, my brothers and I communicate telepathically. At the moment, for instance, Nate and I are tallying up all the ways Diana has hurt Billy before, and the signs that she’d one day go too far.