This wasn’t as surprising as Eric knowing where she was going to college. Maggie had been a major character in the documentary. The faithful daughter and sister helping chase down leads. It had given her a moment of celebrity at school, but it was more of the pitying variety. Though some of the internet trolls speculated that when she got older—she’d been only twelve when the documentary was filmed—she’d be quite the beauty, like her mother. Or her “hottie” brothers.

Ugh. It was all the world seemed to care about. And in pure hypocrite mode, here she was fawning over handsome Eric.

“We’ve had some setbacks with the case, but I got a great tip the other day,” Maggie said. “Setbacks” was an understatement. The United States Supreme Court wasn’t a setback; it was the end of the road. But Eric likely wouldn’t care about the intricacies of the legal system. Or was she underestimating him?

“A tip? You mean like evidence or something?”

“Yeah, wanna see?”

He nodded as she pulled out her phone.

“I run social media for the case. We get a lot of weirdos and trolls, but also some legit people. And we get tips now and then.” She tapped and swiped as she spoke. “Usually it’s nothing, but then this came in.”

It was a jostling cell phone video, the first two seconds a blur of bodies, music blaring in the background.

“What is it?” Eric said, leaning in closer.

“It’s the party.” She was assuming that Eric, like everyone else, understood the shorthand from the documentary. The night her brother’s girlfriend, Charlotte, was killed, she’d attended a house party. Danny had been there too, like all the seniors. The local police had raided the festivities, and Danny and Charlotte had been separated in the melee. Witnesses reported seeing a very intoxicated Danny later that night at an after-party in a cornfield; Charlotte was never seen alive again.

“It could be him, the U.P.,” Maggie said, pointing at the screen.

“You mean, like, the Unknown Partygoer?”

He’d definitely watched the documentary. The Unknown Partygoer had become a thing—Facebook memes, late-night talk-show bits, even shirts. The filmmakers focused on the fact that the police had identified everyone at the party that night except for one guest. A white male who a witness had aged anywhere from his early to late twenties and who no one seemed to know. The person the documentary suggested was the real killer. Who many believed was a loser named Bobby Ray Hayes, the Smasher. Maggie put the video in slow motion.

Eric looked on, seeming fascinated.