Cade is tall with dark tousled hair and large, black-rimmed glasses above a band T-shirt and dark jeans. He’s broad shouldered and handsome in a Clark Kent kind of way, like at any moment he might rip his shirt off and run somewhere to save the day. Behind him, Samantha smirks as if she’s read my thoughts.

“Mr. Abernathy,” Teddy says. “We’d like to talk to you about your roommate Jay Kemp.”

“Right.” Cade runs his hand over his face and looks down at Samantha, who’s curled herself beneath his arm. “Okay if they come in?”

“Great,” I say, before Samantha can answer, and they shuffle backward out of the doorway.

Inside, it’s cozy and clean. To the left is a living area with two couches and a television, to the right a small dining table and a galley kitchen. Straight ahead is a long hallway. The door at the end is open, and a soft light reveals a bed in a state of disarray—sheets flung to one side, pillow shoved against the wall, a gold comforter thrown across the edge.

My stomach does a small flip, and a yearning, deep and unsettling, passes through my skin. Teddy seems to sense it—although I hope not what I’m actually feeling—and clears his throat.

“Shall we sit?” he asks, and turns to the couches rather than the table. His tone suggests this is just a nice comfortable chat. Nothing serious. They follow him and choose the smaller of the two sofas, Samantha still glued under Cade’s shoulder.

Teddy sits in the middle of the longer couch with his legs spread, leaning toward them over his knees. I perch on the edge, farther away. Everything about Teddy’s body language is telling me he thinks he should handle this one.

“Right, so you know why we’re here.”

Slight nods from both.

“On Tuesday morning at five past ten, Jay Kemp was hit by a vehicle while crossing the Lumpkin-Baxter Street crosswalk. The vehicle fled the scene, and Jay died shortly after impact.”

A small intake of breath from Samantha, and she looks up worriedly into Cade’s face. I think, meanly, that she would love it if he started crying.

“We’re talking with everyone who knew Jay and have spoken to many of your brothers already, as well as Jay’s professors and classmates”—this receives a small snort from Cade—“and we need to ask you some general questions about Jay, but first, can you tell us where you were Tuesday morning?”

“What—he’s not a suspect?” A glare of wounded outrage from Samantha that reminds me strangely of my childhood cat whenever we shut her in the laundry room at night.

“I was here,” Cade says, gesturing down the hall toward the bedroom, and, god help him, he blushes.

“From what time?”