You might expect a somber mood to preside over campus in the aftermath of a student death, but the university is simply too large. There would have been an email announcement: “The university is greatly saddened by the loss of one of our own” kind of thing, but I wouldn’t be surprised if half the students and a handful of faculty haven’t heard what happened yet. My mother refuses to watch the local news, preferring international sources like the BBC or ZDF. And these days, most students prefer streaming sites to cable.

Leaving Baldwin Hall, I see a girl in the corner sniveling into her phone. I catch every other word but none of them sound like “Jay Kemp.”

Teddy and I grab sandwiches from the student learning center and sit on a bench outside, watching the intersection where Jay was hit.

Most of the time if a student gets dragged into the station, they’re belligerent—smudged mascara, puffy faced, hair like they’ve slept in it, swearing or crying or both—but tracing down the sidewalk are clear-eyed, freshly laundered students, clutching books, leaning against iron railings, and chatting about test grades and what they did over the weekend. It’s the statistics that remind you everything’s not rose doodles in the margins of notebooks, club meetings, intramural sports, and football games: substance abuse, depression, suicide, and sexual assault top the list, but there’s also homesickness, eating disorders, and debilitating anxiety, students who don’t leave their rooms for weeks, doctors prescribing cocktails of prescriptions independent of one another, and predators scoping out college bars.

The glass doors open behind us, followed by shuffling feet, a high-pitched squeal, and the laughter that marks the break between classes.

“We’re wasting our time,” I say, closing my notebook. I cross my arms and stare at the red traffic light against the blue-gray sky. “We should go at his brothers. Hard.”

“With what?” Teddy turns to me. “Why are you so certain they’re involved?” His voice is curious, not accusatory, but I feel a stab of defensiveness anyway.

The light changes again, and Teddy makes a note of the number of students on the sidewalk. He marks the two who dart across after the light turns green.

I squint at the sun. He’s right—there’s very little to go on. But everything inside me is screaming that Kap-O has something to do with it. That I’ve been given a chance to put things right.

“I had a friend in a fraternity,” I say finally.

Teddy raises his eyebrow.

“A good friend,” I add, feeling my face flush.