I feel like someone’s thrown cold water over me.

I’m watching myself in the dark. Thinking the same thought now as I did then. Those fucking assholes. The light switches back on, circles the room, illuminates the handcuffs on the wall, and then returns to the buckets. I see my leap to the steps and the bucket’s contents sloshing across the floor. My stomach clenches. The video goes dark. And then there’s Oliver.

The transition’s too quick. There should have been at least half an hour of dead footage before he arrived. But there he is, tracing the same path as me a few moments earlier, only he’s got the footstool.

There are other files. All dark, but with figures who move across the room, take the whip off the wall, sleep on the floor. It could be anywhere, any windowless, subterranean space, but I know exactly what I’m looking at.

Hands shaking, I yank the flash drive out of the computer.

“Detective Kaplan?” Amy calls as I march out the door.

Somehow, I manage to unlock my car and maneuver it onto Broad Street. My mind’s speeding faster than the cars in front of me—an oversized pickup and a child-emptied SUV puttering along the highway.

There’s video footage of me and Oliver. Me—near falling into the basement. Trespassing. Poking around private property without permission or warrant. Me—even after my resignation, still managing to undermine the case. But then there’s Oliver, who trusted me enough to roll out of bed that night. Oliver, who’d also be in trouble if the footage gets out. And Tripp, who loaded the video on a flash drive and dropped it into our hands.

The day’s clouds are turning the street a heavy shade of gray and evergreen. A few raindrops splash the window, and finally the oversized pickup opts for a midmorning Varsity stop, freeing me to speed around the mom in the SUV and turn onto Milledge.

In my mind, the street has transformed over the past month—all those beautiful mansions. From the outside, they’re manicured lawns, sweeping front porches, and rocking chairs, but inside, the old floors are splintering and cracking beneath the shiny laminate, sinking into a pit of their own making. What are these houses if not idols, where firstborn sons are sacrificed to gods of conformity, offered with a prayer for good fortune, their cries drowned out by the beat of trap music, football chants, and drunken recitations of the fraternity’s creed?

I stop in front of the overlarge redbrick building and stare at its Doric columns, wondering how many secrets they’ve supported over the years. Rain splatters the windshield. There’s no way I can go inside. Not now.