We all have our own ways of approaching a case—I try to picture every detail I can about the victim’s life so I can build a world with him in it and look for inconsistencies. Teddy asks as many questions as possible—finding out information but also gauging reactions and hesitations, looking for lies and omissions. I listen to his voice and their footsteps echo in the stairwell as I try to imagine Jay walking through the hall. I draw a mental picture of his face, blow life back into his features, color into his cheeks, bounce into his fluffy brown hair. His stride would have all the false confidence of youth and inherited wealth; of that, I’m certain. But would he be boisterous, yelling to the other brothers? Laughing? Showing off? Would he have looked at the wall of dream girls? Maybe with a longing glance for this year’s girl? Or glower at one particular brother? Was he looking over his shoulder? Did he have any idea that this place would be a poor receptacle for his memory, the sound of his laughter, the smell of his skin already erased in a house of so many? None of the Jays I imagine—loud, funny, anxious—seem to fit, and when Tripp yells again, I feel Jay slip through my fingers.

I continue down the hall, listening for the sound of Jay’s voice. Again I think, confident, with perhaps a southern lilt. He would jog up the stairs—Not a patient one, I think, considering his manner of death—so I do the same when I reach them.

On the third floor, past a precarious line of cables stretching across the carpet, Tripp’s standing outside a room two doors down. He ducks his head and waves to me. And I think, not unkindly, of a blond ostrich.

He moves aside so I can enter but remains in the hall, unwilling or unable to set foot in Jay’s room.

There are two beds—one on each side of a striped floor rug—and a white porcelain sink.

“Which bed’s Jay’s?” Teddy asks, mercifully contracting the verb so the past tense is unnecessary.

“That one.” Tripp points to the mattress on the left.

I clench my jaw.

A twin, it looks like a child’s bed with a half-askew navy-blue comforter and a pile of dirty clothes kicked to the bottom.

I indicate the neatly made bed on the opposite side. “We’ll need to talk to his roommate.”

“Cade Abernathy,” Tripp says from the hallway.

“Where is he?”

Tripp squirms. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. He spends most nights at his girlfriend’s apartment. She lives on the south side.”

“And does he know about Jay?”

“I sent a message as soon as we found out. We’re having a special meeting this afternoon.”