The gym is a kaleidoscope of students in crop tops with toned legs and active young bodies trying to sweat out the lingering baby fat and stave off the freshman fifteen or sophomore twenty, all self-critical and with no understanding that they’ll look back at their selfies ten years from now and wish they’d realized they were young and beautiful instead of killing themselves at the gym for the sake of some fleeting image of perfection.

Amina and my mother leave me at the front desk.

“Otherwise there won’t be spaces in the back,” Amina yells as she and my mother rush through the tripod turnstiles.

It’s not until they disappear up the stairs that I pull out my badge. Then the two students behind the desk start moving, overly helpful, while trying not to stare at my scars.

It occurs to me that even if I’ve solved the hour gap on Jay’s call log, it doesn’t matter. Unless he pissed off some dumbbell-waving psycho who stole his car and ran him over with it, Jay’s presence here doesn’t make any difference. But still, I want to look around, to get a feel for the space. Maybe there’s an alcove where people buy well-written essays and test answers, or drugs, I think hopefully. Maybe Jay was selling drugs.

“I’d like a tour,” I say.

“A tour?” Student A repeats. He’s pale and pockmarked with newly formed muscles stretched under his tight shirt.

“Yep, the whole thing.”

I tap my badge on the counter.

“Um, okay.” He casts a glance at Student B, but she’s sunk back in her phone. “You all right if I show this lady—”

“Detective,” I say.

“—detective around?”

Student B rolls her eyes. “I think I can handle it,” she says with an irritable gesture to the empty lobby.

He buzzes me through the gate next to the turnstiles, and I stomp past like I know where I’m going.

“This way,” he says, when I turn in the wrong direction. “We usually start with the pool.”

For the next ten minutes, I’m assaulted with the scent of chlorine, the sounds of squeaky sneakers on the waxed basketball court, echoes of missed shots, and the heavy breathing of students running on treadmills. Through a pair of glass windows, I witness one group practice karate moves while another gyrates in front of a wall of mirrors. No one pays us attention or goes all shifty as we stride past. Quite a number are on their phones—texting as they pedal stationary bikes. Turning up music before they take another lap on the track.

I groan, and Student A glances at me with concern. I motion for him to continue.