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THE NEXT MORNING ROB Jacobson and I, just the two of us, are sitting in our usual conference room down the hall from the courtroom. I have already prepared myself on the ride here from Amagansett for an extremely long day in court, mostly because I know what Katherine Welsh has in store for us:

A parade of Garden City cops who will slow-walk the jury through everything they encountered when they arrived at the crime scene the night of the shootings, complete with grisly crime-scene photos.

After she’s done with them, she plans to call an audiovisual expert who will use computer-generated animation—based on the findings of all those cops—to show how they believe the events of that night unfolded, beginning with the killer shooting Hank Carson on the first floor of the house before proceeding upstairs to where he found Lily and Morgan Carson in their respective bedrooms.

Jimmy or I have already interviewed these same cops.

So I know they’re certain the shooter used a suppressor, which is why the neighbors didn’t hear anything, and why the cops believe neither Lily nor Morgan knew that Hank Carson was already dead as the shooter made his way up the stairs and finished his work.

I’ve already objected to the use of the animation, even knowing there is absolutely no chance, none, that Judge Horton won’t allow it. The truth is, I’ve used animation like this myself in the past, knowing what a powerful evidentiary tool animation like this can be.

All the jury will be seeing in Katherine Welsh’s little movie is an avatar moving from room to room and doing the shooting.

But I know she’ll do everything in her power to make those twelve people see Rob Jacobson moving from room to room and firing his weapon.

And I’ll do everything in my power to distract them.

For now, Rob Jacobson and I are seated across from each other. He keeps looking up at the wall clock behind me, waiting for the moment when the two of us will make the walk down the hallway a few minutes before nine o’clock.

From the time I walked into the room, I haven’t said anything to him.

“You have that look,” he says finally, unable to wait for me to break the silence between us.

“And what look would that be?”

“The one that makes me feel like I’ve stepped in it all over again.”

I notice, and not for the first time, that he’s managed to maintain his summer tan.

I assume that he’s got a tanning machine tucked away somewhere in his rental home.

But what his bronzing can’t hide is his weight loss, the way the skin is starting to sag below his chin, the general strain on his face, despite an almost relentless effort on his part to appear—especially with me—as cocky and as sure of himself as ever.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that he’s the one who’s sick.

“I had lunch with my sister yesterday,” I tell him.

“Oh, so that’s it.” He nods. “She told you I don’t want to see her anymore.”

Now I’m the one nodding, a little too vigorously. “Yeah, Rob, she was so upset at you kicking her out of your bed that she almost forgot to mention that she’s dying.”

I am fighting to maintain my composure. But by now I have learned, the hard way, that restraining myself from losing my temper in his presence—or hauling off and slugging him again—isn’t the real battle for me.

The real battle continues to be convincing myself that as much of a guttersnipe—one of my mother’s favorite words—as he is, he’s not a monster.

“You really should be thanking me,” he says.

I turn and look at the clock. Still ten minutes before we need to leave.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, then repeat the process, like I’m back at yoga.

“Thanking you for what, exactly?” I ask.

“You wanted me out of her life and now I’m officially out of her life.”

“Brigid is dying,” I say quietly.

“Listen, I know she’s dying, okay?” he says. “And I feel badly about that, I do, whether you want to believe me or not. But it’s not as if I don’t have my own problems.”

I lean an elbow on the table and cup my chin in my hand, as if fascinated by him. Just because I so often am.

“And so, what, you don’t have the time or the energy for a dying friend?” I ask.

“I know you’re being sarcastic,” he says. “But I really don’t have it right now, as a matter of fact.”

“The time or the energy?” I say. “Or maybe just the humanity?”

He says, “By now you should know me well enough to know that I really don’t have it in me to deal with a dying chick, even if she is your sister.”

I do push my chair back now, and stand, and see him flinching as I reach for the bag I’d set down next to me on the table. Then walk around the table and around him to the door.

“You know you’re the one I really want in my bed,” he says.

I stop, my hand on the doorknob. I turn around. He turns around in his chair to face me.

“I’d have to be dead already,” I say.

I smile and shrug.

“But who knows, Rob? Maybe you’re into that, too.”