The door swung all the way open. Terry took them down the hallway and into a traditionally furnished living room: hardwood parquet floors, crown molding, expensive-looking rugs, a crystal chandelier, and a roaring fire. On the coffee table in front of a jacquard silk white couch were two almost empty brandy snifters and an ashtray of butts. The throw pillows had been crushed. Terry plumped them up. “Sit wherever you want.”

“This is Detective Oliver,” Decker said. “You know Detective McAdams and me.” He looked around. “Are you alone?”

“My parents are out.”

“That’s not what he asked,” Oliver said. “He asked if you were alone.”

The group heard a door open and turned to the source of the sound. “It’s all right, Tee.” The voice was male, and he slowly ambled his way down the hall until the long hair came into view. He was sloppily dressed but the material was expensive. When he stepped into the living room, Decker said, “Hello, Livingston. What brings you here?”

Sobel didn’t answer. Instead, he sat down on the couch and poured brandy into one of the used snifters. His eyes went to McAdams. “What happened to you?”

“I was shot: the leg, the arm, and a graze to the head. I wouldn’t recommend it even for verisimilitude in a screenplay. The dude was serious.”

Sobel went mute. Terry sank down next to him. His voice was a whisper. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Why’d you take a leave of absence, Lance?” Decker asked.

It took him a while to find his voice. “I needed a break.”

“In your senior year of college?” Oliver asked.

“It wasn’t just Angeline’s death, it was the way she died. Everything went weird, the way people looked at each other, the way they looked at me! I had to get out.”

“What can you tell me about her murder?” Oliver asked.

“Nothing!” The room went silent. Finally, Terry said, “You guys know I couldn’t have done anything. You checked out my schedule. I was totally telling the truth. I don’t know anything!”

“Detective Decker filled me in, but I’m new here,” Oliver said. “You said people went weird after the murder. Maybe your friends have theories about Angeline?”

“You name it, they said it. She was everything from a prostitute and a drug dealer to a spy working for the CIA. And everyone was coming up to me for answers, like I was holding back. I’m sure some idiots think my absence means I’m guilty of something. But I swear I don’t know any more than anyone else. The break is temporary. I’m coming back for spring semester.”

Decker looked at Terry, then at Sobel. “So when did you two get so tight.”

“I called him up when I came back home,” Terry said. “We both knew Angeline. I . . . just wanted to talk to him.”