Teddy shrugs. “Maybe he got caught texting and the professor threatened to take his phone away.”

A flash of my mother’s face. It’s an impossible battle, she always says. Asking them to not look at their phones for an hour is like asking them to remove a limb.

“Maybe.”

Somewhere under my pile of notes is Jay’s course schedule, and I don’t remember him having any classes that late.

I turn back to the sheet.

“There’s also no more calls to Katie Coleman.” I shake my head. Maybe she was telling the truth, I think, as I scan down the list. “Look at all these messages the day before he died though, and then at ten-oh-three Tuesday morning—the last text is to—”

Teddy leans over my shoulder.

“Tripp, huh?”

He turns from the computer and gives Jay’s photo on the board a long look.

“Strange he didn’t mention that.”

Seven

Thursday, November 14, 2:00 P.M.

We have two interview rooms. One’s for hard suspects—bare walls, water stains on ceiling tiles that nobody’s bothered to replace, table in the middle, us on one side, suspect on the other. The kind you see on television where the guy’s in handcuffs, slamming his fists on the table and demanding his lawyer. We let them sit for an hour or two, get squirmy, stare at that brown ceiling stain and think about how they’re just like it—worthless, wastes of space, a blemish on their otherwise halfway decent communities—and then we’ll come in and offer coffee or whatever, let them think the boredom and suspense is almost over, and leave them for another hour, periodically checking in through the two-way mirror.

This isn’t where Teddy brings Tripp. Instead, he ushers him into the second interview room. It’s smaller, with a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table in the middle to keep us out of arm’s reach. It’s supposed to be cozy, but there’s a camera blinking from the top right corner and a tape recorder in the middle of the table.

“Thanks so much for coming in,” Teddy says as they walk by my desk. Tripp nods at me but looks relieved when I don’t follow. I grumble and sift paperwork as if I’m not interested in what he’s doing here. It’s no big deal, my body language says, just a matter of routine.

“How was class today? Only a few more weeks, right?” Teddy’s asking one mundane question after the next, so Tripp’s guard drops and he gets used to answering.

Tripp says something I can’t hear under all my paper shuffling.

But Teddy chuckles: “English, huh? Man, I was awful at English. Give me numbers all day, but ask me to analyze a poem, no thanks.”

Tripp laughs along with him.