“So your wife, Helen, probably told you that I’m working on a book. I assume you’re aware of the Cole Wright trial. I’m looking into the years when he and the future president were at Dartmouth.”

“Right. Cole, Maddy Parson, and I all lived in the same house senior year. You know Burton Pearce? He lived there too.”

“So you knew them all?”

“You bet. Not many secrets when you share a hall bathroom.”

“What were they like, the three of them?”

“I’d call it a tension convention,” says Stringer. “Or maybe a soap opera. For one thing, Burton wasn’t all that thrilled about Cole moving in.”

Interesting. I’d been thinking of them as the Three Musketeers. “Why not? Wasn’t having a football star in the house a big deal?”

“Not if he cut in on your romance.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Burton was head over heels in love with Maddy Parson.”

New angle. I get out my notebook and scrawl furiously. “Were Maddy and Burton a couple?”

“Not as far as Maddy was concerned. And definitely not once Cole came into the picture.”

I’m writing so fast my fingers are cramping. “Caleb, I need to ask you about an assault that happened at a homecoming party. One that Cole Wright was at.”

Silence.

“Caleb? You still there?”

“I’m here.” His tone has changed from chatty to reserved. “What about the party?”

“I heard that somebody on the underground paper was about to write a story about a freshman girl getting assaulted during the party. And there were rumors that the reporter was threatened. And then the story got killed. But it’s been hard to get confirmation from anyone who was there.”

Another pause. Then: “I was.”

Suddenly, it’s looking like Caleb Stringer was worth waiting for. I turn the page in my notebook and write Party at the top.

“Brea,” Stringer says, “I’m not gonna say anything more about this. You need to understand. My project gets government funding.”

My lawyer’s antennae shoot up. I can’t let this lead slip away. “What happened?”

His voice is hesitant. “I only know what people said about Cole. And that’s just hearsay.”

“Caleb. This is important! What did you hear?”

Another stretch of silence. This time, I think the call might have actually dropped. But then he comes back.

“Look, I haven’t talked to anybody about this in twenty years. I didn’t think it was my place to speak up, but the person you want to talk to is Eva Clarke. She should be in the alumni directory. Please don’t use my name.”

“Who’s Eva? Was she at the party that night? Will she remember it?”

Another pause.

“She’ll remember it,” says Stringer. “She’s the girl who was raped.”

CHAPTER
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