McAdams pushed the phone bill back across to Decker’s desk. There were three circled numbers. “The 917 belongs to a male voice . . . no identification in the voice mail. The 314 belongs to a girl named Emily and the 310 belongs to Julia. Not many calls but a ton of texts going back and forth. No one talks on the phone anymore. I’d probably be better off texting them if you want to talk to them.”

“Do it. Then let’s get out of here.”

McAdams looked up. “Where are we going?”

“To Littleton College to talk to Angeline’s friends.” Decker regarded Tyler’s stunned face. “I’ll do all the talking. You just take notes and listen. I want you along because a younger person might inspire the kids to talk a little more.”

“So I’m like your secretary?” When Decker glared at him, McAdams reddened. “I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry. Can I use my iPad to take notes?”

“As long as you don’t get distracted and start looking up mustached babies who dance the tango.”

“Is that a real YouTube?”

Decker rolled his eyes. “Let’s go, Harvard. See what was going on in Angeline’s life. Because right now, we don’t have a clue about her death.”

STEPPING OUT INTO the frigid night air, the two of them began the slow trek in ankle-deep drifts toward the colleges. Academia sat about a mile away: a pleasant walk in the daytime. But as the hour got late, the damp air seeped into the bones and stiffened the muscles.

McAdams’s phone beeped. “It’s a text from Julia Kramer. She wants to know what’s going on.”

“Tell her we’re on our way. Ask her where we should meet.”

“That doesn’t answer her question.”

“And in not answering her question, we say a lot, don’t we.”

“True that.” McAdams texted her back. They walked for another minute in silence until his phone beeped again. He read the text aloud. “Come to my dorm. Maple Hall, 4D. What’s going on?”

“Tell her we’ll be right there. Don’t tip her off. I want to read her face when we get there and break the news.” Decker tightened his scarf and rubbed his hands together. “Tyler, ask her if she has a roommate? We may want some privacy.”

“Sure.” The kid’s hands flew over the pop-up keyboard of his smartphone. A minute later, he said, “Angeline Moreau. Why? . . . Okay, then. What should I text back?”

“Tell her we’ll be there in ten minutes,” Decker said.

“Done.”

“It looks like Angeline has an official dorm room on campus. The apartment is officially registered in her name. Is she paying for the off-campus place or is someone else footing the bill?”

“Should I write that down as a question?”