“And then there was a gap in the cars. The light was still green, but not everyone waits for the crossing sign—and he looked up … and I guess he figured that the black car was still pretty far away … I almost followed him, but then … I saw—” She takes a deep breath. “Instead of slowing down—the light had turned yellow—it looked like the car was speeding up … and so I hesitated … and I almost called out to him … but I—” She buries her face in her hands and her voice is muffled by her palms. “I didn’t. And the car—” Her shoulders shake, and when she opens her mouth, spit clings to the corners. “He flew up in the air, and the driver … the driver looked … he looked happy. And then he sped off. And Jay was … all twisted and—”

“Looked happy?” I repeat, interrupting her.

She uncovers her face and blinks at me like she just remembered I was there. A breeze lifts her curls. Behind her, students filter in and out of the double glass doors, shouldering backpacks and laughing. A cluster of guys in sweatpants yell to the one who broke away from the group.

She furrows her brow. “Yeah,” she says. “He was smiling.”

“Smiling.” I hesitate. I’ve seen traffic camera footage from hit-and-run incidents. Often the driver looks surprised, horrified, or in shock, caught in a motion of trying to turn or slam on the brakes, shoulders tensed, eyes wide, mouth formed into a large O. But smiling—that’s a new one. “You’re sure?”

She nods. “Like it was the best day of his life.”

I frown. Tap my notebook.

“You said ‘he.’ So the driver was male. Did you get a good look at his face?”

The line between her eyes deepens.

“Yeah, but—”

“But what?”

She takes a tight little breath and tugs on her backpack, hands balled into tiny fists.

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

Two

Tuesday, November 12, 4:00 P.M.

The station’s a small, nondescript gray building less than a five-minute drive from downtown and six from the university. The parking lot’s relatively empty, but Lieutenant Barry Truman’s silver Charger is parked at the far end, prohibitively hugging the white line in case anyone would be so bold as to get near his beloved vehicle. Oliver’s VW Golf is parked three spaces away. Teddy’s road bike’s locked to the staff entrance steps. You’d have to be pretty ballsy to steal a bike from a police lot, but Truman won’t let him bring it inside, and Teddy loves the thing too much to take his chances.