Betting, I think. Not a big surprise. Something like 80 percent of all college students say they gamble, but it can become a huge problem if they’re not careful. I knew a guy who started online gambling, dropped out of school, moved to Vegas, got addicted to coke, and ended up gunning down his father in his garage when he wouldn’t give him money to support his addiction.

I scribble on my notepad: Gambling? Did Jay owe money?

He certainly had money, but maybe they played big. Or maybe they bet things that weren’t theirs to give. I draw a line from “gambling” to “Katie Coleman” and flip back a few pages. The car, I think suddenly. Our hit-and-run driver was in Jay’s car. Could someone have won Jay’s keys in a bet?

“Of course.” Teddy’s nodding along. “I text my guys all the time—mostly shit-talk, you know, like who’s gonna win our next pickup game, and, I dunno, funny pics from online.”

“Yeah, and like who’s kicking ass in Fortnite.”

I see What’s Fortnite in the slant of Teddy’s eyebrows, but Tripp misses it.

“So like I said. No big deal. I just need you to look over these numbers and tell me if you recognize any of them. I figure they’re mostly your brothers—talking about fraternity business and”—just a miniscule pause—“Fortnite.”

We don’t need Tripp to do this. Dara has already traced the numbers and sent us a list of who’s who. But Teddy’s watching Tripp’s face as he reads down the lines.

“I, um, I don’t really know anyone’s number off the top of my head.”

“Oh, sure.” Teddy leans back in his chair. “Of course not. I think I’ve got my mom’s number and Detective Kaplan’s memorized, but that’s it. I don’t even know my girlfriend’s.”

Curious glance from Tripp like he’s only just realized Teddy has a life outside of detective work. And I feel a tiny flutter I shouldn’t with the realization he knows my number but not Cindy’s.

“You probably have them all saved in your phone, right? That’s why you don’t need to remember them.”

Head nod.

“Do you have your phone with you?”

Another nod.

“Right, so if you wouldn’t mind, look at your contacts and let me know who Jay was calling.”

Again Tripp must figure we’re going to find out anyway, because after a beat, he leans forward, phone in one hand, list in the other.

“This is me.” Tripp scans the list, his phone, list, then phone. “And this is Michael, more Michael, me, Cade,” back to phone, “Tucker, Dirk, Brent, and Thad.”

I snort. What kind of names are those?

“Garrett, Jonathan, and—” His face flushes, and I know he’s reached our girl. “I, uh, I’m not sure who this is.”