Teddy was there, too, the day of the triple homicide. He saw the community band together, lift each other up, hold on to one another for support. We hadn’t met yet, but that tragedy shaped both our futures. Him, throwing down his bike, forgetting the race, and helping people indoors. Me, doling out shots and free beer, trying to calm everyone’s nerves. It took five days before cadaver dogs found the professor’s body. Five days shuttered behind windows and locked doors, five days questioning everything we knew about professors and picnics, innocent afternoons that turn into murder and bloodshed. And by the end, both of us had signed up for training.

The hum of traffic amplifies the silence between us as we walk. In one of the smaller houses, someone is practicing a violin. A Rottweiler barks behind a fence.

“What did they seem like to you?” he asks finally. “As a group?”

I think of the way their bodies heaved and swayed—a school of fish anticipating one another’s movement. One doesn’t mimic the other, but they’re aware of the smallest vibrations, synchronizing together. “Close,” I say, and pause, listening to the violin. “It’s a bit like summer camp, isn’t it? Tightly formed bonds, late-night talks, all those warm feelings of being accepted, but it’s impermanent. Instead of a week, it’s four years, maybe five, and then you go your separate ways.”

The visual trappings were there—the matching shirts and handshakes—but something in the air felt fractured, frazzled.

I think of the plain walls and plastic chairs, rigid shoulders and bared teeth behind open palms, something hungry in their faces, eyes darting back and forth. The younger ones fidgeting, unsure how to behave, taking clues from older brothers.

But then again we were there. Teddy and I, investigating the death of one of their own. It was only natural, wasn’t it, for tensions to be heightened?

I stop. Something else is bothering me. A wounded animal clawing at the back of my throat, scratching the tip of my tongue.

“The lake,” I say.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“At the service, Michael said he and Jay went fishing last weekend—”

“Yeah, and the stars aligned, and their friendship will last forever.”

I ignore this rare bit of sarcasm and push away the thought that something about this case is getting under his skin. “But when we talked to Dr. Watanabe, she said Jay spent all weekend writing his paper. That his work showed the time he put in.”

Teddy sighs. “He cheated. Had someone else write it for him so he could get drunk and go fishing.”

He rolls his neck and shoulders as the sprawling brick house comes back into view. I consider him from the corner of my eye.

“She seemed pretty sure,” I say.