It takes immense effort, but I resist the urge to imitate him. I don’t have siblings, and something about Teddy brings out the little-sister response in me. Perhaps it’s because I never got it out as a kid. And Teddy has the sure confidence of the oldest of three—which naturally makes me want to take him down a peg. As an only child, I was never quite sure what my role was. I would say I prefer being the leader, but I can also disappear into the wallpaper like a middle child or tiptoe around the margins learning from everyone else’s mistakes like the youngest. I try to see this as an advantage, but whenever Teddy talks about his sisters, I feel an acute sense of longing that verges on loss. It’s not true that you can’t miss what you never had. You can; and worse, it’s all rose-colored and golden because it lives in your imagination, unspoiled by the reality of hurt feelings and petty rivalries and whatever else might happen in bigger families with everyone vying for attention or control.

“What do you got?” I ask instead. I’ve been reading over Jay’s school records—Cs and Ds all his freshman and half his sophomore year, and then, oddly, As and Bs ever since—and have been trying to figure out what inspired the change. Cheating’s my first guess. Fraternities are known to keep files of tests and final exams, prompting professors to write new questions every semester, but, of course, not all of them do. And there’s also a complete change in coursework. His first year and a half, he took a lot of gen ed classes—math and science mostly—then spring of his sophomore year, he changes to more humanities courses, does great, and now he’s taking—or was taking—classes for a political science major: Intro to Political Theory, Political Psychology, Criminal Procedure, and two outliers: Introduction to Ethics and Stellar and Galactic Astronomy.

“Dara sent over traffic camera footage of the vehicle turning left onto Broad Street after the accident,” Teddy says.

That’s it, I think, we got him.

“And?”

He looks for a sticky note–free spot on my desk, finds none, and lays three blown-up photos of a car on top of a note that reads: white van, male, nineteen to twenty-four, waits for the last one.

The first is the overlarge front license plate; thank god it’s a BMW with its pretentious insistence on sticking to the European way—Georgia only requires license plates in the back—so here we’ve got a smudged face and numbers all in one.

Teddy grabs a Snickers bar out of my desk drawer, while I bend over the photos.

“The car belongs to our victim. Or rather, it’s registered to his father, Robert Kemp. But Jay’s listed on the insurance.”