I can sense Teddy growing restless in the interview room. I need to figure out what’s going on before Tripp leaves.

I’m frantically skimming ahead, looking for anything useful, when I get to the last page.

The last text.

To Tripp.

I suck in my teeth, grab the pages and my notes, and march off to the interview room.

“Don’t tell Mike?”

Tripp looks confused and then pales.

Teddy leans over the printed list to where my finger is pointing.

He reads off the sheet. “The last text Jay sent was”—he looks at Tripp—“‘Don’t tell Mike.’ Not ‘Talk to Mike.’”

Tripp’s eyes dart across the page, but he shrugs like he doesn’t see the difference.

“That didn’t seem important to you?” The exasperation’s clear in Teddy’s voice. “Something we should know?” There’s a troubled line between his brows, and I resist the urge to reach out and smooth it.

I keep telling Teddy that everyone lies. They lie about petty bullshit to save face and lie about antidepressants and past traumas, so we don’t think they’re crazy. They lie because lying is second nature. All day long they’re telling stories about who they are and why they do what they do, where they’re always the hero of their own narrative. They want to believe the world revolves around them and have to tell a million lies a day to keep it that way. We all do. If we had any grasp of our insignificance in the grand scheme of the universe but the simultaneous harm we do on a global scale—from the 660 gallons of water one hamburger wastes, to greenhouse emissions and our hand in the extinction of hundreds of other species, we’d never get out of bed in the morning. But we don’t need Teddy’s nice-guy act deteriorating now. So I step in.

“You told us everyone loved Jay. That everyone got along. No problems. No issues. Nothing. But that’s not true, is it?” I’m standing behind the coffee table, leaning over Tripp, so he has to look up to make eye contact. “We have evidence that indicates not everyone was happy with Jay and he wasn’t happy with everyone either.”

Tripp glances at the message sheet again, but I snatch it back.

“Why don’t you tell us more about Jay and Michael.”

He snorts. “Two big personalities.”

“Yeah? So they didn’t get along?”

“They got on fine, but Michael’s treasurer, and Jay is—” He swallows. “—was social chair.”

“So?”

“So,” Tripp says slowly, “it was just usual fraternity stuff. Jay planned the parties, but Michael controlled the money box. They butted heads.”

“About what?”

Tripp sighs and fidgets in his chair. “Jay always wanted to throw these huge ragers. Like last spring we had this beach party.”