“I liked Whitman, though,” I hear Teddy say before he steps through the door. “Have you read Whitman?”

I roll my eyes.

Teddy loves poetry. One look at his desk would have told Tripp that, and Teddy can’t help himself; adding the truth about Whitman is like a nervous tic.

I count to twenty, let them get settled, and then head to the observation room—a dark, narrow space with two chairs set just behind the two-way mirror.

Tripp and Teddy are already seated. Tripp is trying to imitate Teddy’s casual slump—one leg crossed widely over the opposite knee—but he’s barely on the edge of the sofa and his top foot pulses furiously.

“Right,” Teddy says, his voice hollow and tinny over the speakers. “Thanks again for coming in. I know the guys just want to get back to normal and having me and Detective Kaplan around makes that difficult.”

Tripp nods, choosing to believe this rationale for asking him to the station.

“Am I,” he asks with a weak laugh, “I’m not like a suspect or anything?”

“What?” Teddy guffaws. “Nah, man. It’s just quieter in here than in the bullpen, you know? Phones ringing, papers piling up. It’s hard to talk in there. I just have a few questions and think you might be able to help.”

“I’ll try.” Tripp’s head bobs up and down. Helpful giraffe, I think.

“Great. I appreciate that. And just so you know, you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. You have the right to remain silent. And anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Okay, so we pulled Jay’s phone records.” Teddy’s read Tripp his Miranda rights so quickly and casually, I’m not sure he’s caught it, but there’s a jerk of Tripp’s shoulders at the mention of Jay’s phone. “And we see that you and him were in pretty close contact—nothing unusual there, I’m sure all you guys message each other a lot.”

Tripp’s starting to look unsure, wondering whether conceding this fact is in his best interest, but since Teddy’s put the printed call logs in front of him, he must decide there’s not much use denying it.

“It’s mostly fraternity business,” he says slowly. “What band to invite for the next party. Who’s in charge of getting the keg. And random stuff, too, like if we’re watching a football game we’ll text each other predictions.”