Oliver gives me a look I can’t read. He’s heard me spout my opinions about fraternities and Greek life at large. If it were up to me, the university would do away with the whole thing. They’re cesspools of underage drinking and sexual assault. And I’ve already run through my favorite possible scenarios—our victim’s a junior, so revenge for hazing fits neatly at the top of my list, followed by stealing someone’s girlfriend, and your run-of-the-mill brotherhood rivalry. Oliver insists that not all fraternities are bad—one of his brothers was a fraternity president—and that charity work and networking form valuable opportunities for young men. Inevitably he’ll cite higher retention and graduation rates, a strong affinity with the college, and volunteer work as all the amazing benefits of Greek life. I feel like he’s drunk the Kool-Aid, and whenever we have this argument—basically every other fall weekend when a girl comes into the front lobby requesting a rape kit—I chant “No means yes, yes means anal” under my breath, so I can watch his face blanch and get him to shut up. None of them share my aversion, and I have a sudden longing for my mother’s mind for statistics and her confident voice daring anyone to interrupt: one in five, she’d say, that’s how many college women will be assaulted before they graduate; 74 percent, that’s how much more likely women in sororities are to be raped, and 300 percent—men in fraternities are three times more likely to commit rape. And at least one—at least one student will die this year in a hazing-related incident.

It’s no wonder I grew up slightly biased against Greek life; but if you’re from a college town, you have to choose sides early: give me weird, slightly self-righteous indie kids and gray-haired townies any day over Vineyard Vines–wearing douchebags who talk about hangovers like they’re gold medals and girls like they owe them something.

But as it is, I’m holding this all close to my chest, lest Truman put Oliver on the case with Teddy instead of me, citing female access to frat bathrooms or something.

“Has the family been notified?”

“We’re working on it. They’re out of the country. His dad’s some insurance bigwig. They own a place in Five Points, but the neighbors say they’re rarely home.”

Truman stirs in his chair, and Oliver glances at the whiteboard again.

If you’re not from Athens, you wouldn’t know it, but all the well-to-do families are connected. Big money often—but not always—means old money. And old-money Athens is its own beast: an ancient gorilla making shady deals and brewing up regional monopoly schemes, from local sewage companies to contract bids with the state.

“What did you say his last name was?”