The room had been scoured by crime experts. I knew from their reports which corner Brenae had chosen, and what the dents and scuffs on the wall there meant. Technicians had scraped off pieces of her brain and skull to dislodge the bullet embedded inside. They’d bagged the bullet, the gun, and every other object in the studio, including the laptop, an empty pill bottle, a pair of slippers, a mug with dried coffee ringing the bottom, and lots of shredded paper that they diligently tried to tape back together to find a message. But the paper was blank. They’d bagged the mattress, too.

They’d also bagged Brenae, and, in another building in the county, a medical examiner had checked her thoroughly for bruises or signs of penetration (none), then examined the wound and took toxicology samples, while the detectives had spoken to students, faculty, and family about Brenae’s last days. Everyone they interviewed had alibis, except Pearson and Davi, who’d both been home alone that night. Every expert on the case had come to the same conclusion: sometime between midnight and 4:00 a.m., Brenae had lain down, put a large, heavy pillow over her head, stuck the gun up under her chin, and pulled the trigger.

But as I stood there, in the room where it had happened, I still couldn’t believe it. And I knew Ray couldn’t, either. That’s why he’d been checking the windows, and now the ceiling. We were unable to un-see murder. The violence of Brenae’s death: it demanded an explanation other than isolation and desperation. And because we possessed the sex video, something that LASD hadn’t seen, the case seemed different now from the one they had solved. Their detectives had located Brenae’s suicidal motivations everywhere—in her financial situation, her precarious position at the school, her lack of medication. To me, they had a locus. Erik. Erik had gone to see her on Tuesday. He claimed that his attempt to talk to her had failed. But by Thursday, Brenae was dead and, by Friday morning, Lesson in Red erased.

“Anything?” I whispered.

Ray turned away and pointed at the skylight, to the plastic glow-in-the-dark galaxy that someone had glued up there.

“Fake stars,” he said.

“NOT MUCH TO UNCOVER,” RAY said as soon as Jim had left us in the parking lot. The students were starting to gather on campus, and perhaps Hal would be showing up soon, too. We hid in the shade of a sycamore behind Janis’s car.

“I wouldn’t think so,” said Janis. “It was months ago.”

I nearly announced my find in the library but noticed that Ray was looking off into the distance, hands in his pockets, his gaze dazed.

“What?” I said. “Just tell us.”

“You have a minute?” Ray asked Janis.

“Of course,” said Janis.