Teddy thinks my frequent recitation of Greek misdeeds borders on obsession. Oliver rolls his eyes anytime I forward a news article. And it’s true. I collect them, these horrendously sad and never-ending accounts all across the nation, pile them up in my memory, so I can bury the thing at its core. But compared to other stories, those guys with the bruises were lucky. There was the nineteen-year-old who inhaled eighteen drinks in ninety minutes and died after he fell down the stairs; his brothers, who waited twelve hours before they called 911. The “Bible studies” in which pledges have to drink if they answer fraternity questions incorrectly. Young men dying alone in rooms full of people, dying because of underage drinking and negligence, dying because no one will take responsibility. Because after the crowds are gone, the vomit cleaned off the floors, the tears wept at the funeral, everyone will point their fingers in opposite directions. The universities, the chapter officers, the police.

As we pull up the drive, I check Teddy’s face. He’s calm, but oddly quiet. In the morning light, the bags under his eyes have taken a deeper hue. And I realize that I was so worried about being sidelined, I didn’t ask him if he wanted this case. We talked about bringing Oliver with us—he’s one polo shirt away from a frat boy anyhow—but decided against it. No reason to make me superfluous when Truman’s already unsure about my presence. But I took it for granted that Teddy wanted this one as badly as I did.

It’s only Wednesday, but it’s also 8:00 A.M. and I’m expecting a yard full of beer cans, a stale after-party smell, and hungover, half-dressed men with obscene images drawn on their foreheads. In the dozen or so times I ran through our visit to the house this morning, it didn’t once occur to me that the place would be quiet and somber.

The chapter president is waiting for us at the front door. From a distance, he’s all golden-blond hair, tall and lanky, compensating for his height by ducking his head like a bashful giraffe. But up close, he looks awful—clothes a mess, eyes swollen and red rimmed. Hungover, I think, before he takes a long, watery breath and I realize he’s been crying.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, shaking my hand and then Teddy’s. He looks us both in the eyes, and I can feel Teddy’s mood shift. We’ve been preparing for resistance—come-back-with-a-warrant kind of nonsense—and this welcome, although preferable, relaxes Teddy but puts me on edge.