I’d been there before.

“Three days ago, three hundred and seven serious students took the first of three Monsters or Men exams. The three hundred and eighth student, Emerson Cole, was found dead that morning.”

“There’s no white noise,” Sloane commented, sidling up behind me. “Whoever taped the narration has decent equipment. The video, on the other hand, was taken by some kind of smartphone. At least 1080p resolution, maybe higher.”

The video cut from the auditorium scene to familiar footage—the clip of Emerson’s body. The narration continued, but I tuned it out.

“I’d ask if this kid was serious,” Michael said, coming to join us, “but I can tell that he is. He thinks this is cutting-edge journalism. On his profile page.”

“He didn’t kill Emerson,” I said tiredly. Conrad didn’t fit the profile. Our killer didn’t have a snarky blog. He didn’t have a girlfriend like Bryce—even if it was complicated. And the person who’d killed Emerson, who’d displayed her like a dog dropping a dead bird at the feet of his master, would never have started his “video coverage” of the event with footage of the class.

For the UNSUB, the rest of the class would have been beside the point.

“Play it again,” Sloane ordered. “From the beginning.”

I did. Sloane shoved me gently out of the way and took over, using keyboard shortcuts to pause the video, play it, pause it. Her eyes flitted back and forth over the screen. “The voice-over was right,” she said finally. “There are three hundred and seven students in that classroom taking that test. Including your suspect,” she told me, pointing to an unmistakable face—round, with dull eyes—in the third row. Clark. He was sitting two seats away from Bryce, a row behind Derek.

“Who’s filming the test?” I asked. “And why?”

“I don’t know.” Sloane’s tongue darted out in between her lips in a look of intense concentration. “The news report said that Emerson’s body was discovered early that morning,” she said finally. “The question is how early?”

I followed her line of thought. According to the time stamp, this footage was taken at 7:34 A.M.

“Time of death.” I said the obvious out loud. “We need the time of death.”

Sloane grabbed my phone and dialed a number from memory. When no one answered, she called again. And again. And again.

“What?” Irritation made Briggs’s voice loud enough that I could hear it from a distance.

“It’s considered impolite to talk above seventy-five decibels,” Sloane sniffed. “I believe it’s called shouting.”

I couldn’t hear Briggs’s reply.

“Is the autopsy in on Emerson Cole?” Sloane held the phone to her ear with her shoulder and used her free hands to pull her hair out of its ponytail and refasten it. “We need time of death. Cause of death would also be helpful.”

I was fairly certain Briggs wouldn’t want to part with that information. There was quite a bit of distance between profiling college students on social media and being read in to the nitty-gritty of a classified autopsy.

“You’re at seventy-eight decibels,” Sloane said, unfazed by Briggs’s objections. “And we still need time of death.” She paused again. “Because,” Sloane said, drawing out the word as if she were talking to a very small, very slow child, “we’re sitting here looking at a video that was taken at 7:34 that morning. If I’m remembering the campus maps correctly—and you know I am—Davies Auditorium is a twenty-five-minute walk and a ten-minute drive from the president’s house. Which means that if the death of Emerson Cole (a) required the UNSUB’s presence and (b) took place after 7:25 A.M. and before the end of that test, then every single student in that class has an alibi.”

Sloane was quiet for longer this time. Then she hung up the phone.

“What did he say?” Michael asked her.

Sloane closed her laptop and pushed it away. “He said that the body was found at 8:15 that morning. Time of death was estimated at 7:55.”

The time stamp on the video was verified. It was official: Emerson Cole had been strangled to death while the students in Professor Fogle’s class were in Davies Auditorium, taking their midterm.

The FBI tracked the video back to our good friend TA Geoff, who explained that it was Professor Fogle’s policy to have a video record of tests to discourage ringers from taking it on another student’s behalf. The full-length video also included close-ups of each student as they turned in their tests. Each and every one of our 307 potential suspects—308 if you counted Geoffrey—was present and accounted for.

As far as alibis went, this one was ironclad.

“I told Briggs he should have let me watch the interview with Daniel Redding.” Lia slammed the door to the freezer and then took her frustration out on the silverware drawer. She banged it open, sending the contents rattling. “We’ve been chasing a nonexistent lead because nobody will let me tell them when that soulless, Machiavellian piece of…”

Lia had several colorful ways of describing Dean’s father. I didn’t disagree with any of them. I slid in front of her and withdrew two spoons from the silverware drawer. I held one out to her. After a long moment, she took it. Then she eyed the spoon in my hand suspiciously.

“You’re sharing the ice cream,” I told her. She twirled the spoon back and forth in her fingers, and I wondered if she was planning my demise.

“Dean’s not talking to me, either,” I told her. “And I’m just as frustrated as you are. Everything we’ve done—everything we tried to do—it was for nothing. The UNSUB isn’t in that class. It doesn’t matter that Geoffrey has minimal empathy and a fascination with the dark side, or that Clark had a thing for Emerson and a lot of pent-up rage. None of it matters, because neither of them killed Emerson.”

The one thing the FBI had allowed us to do was a wild-goose chase, courtesy of Dean’s psychotic father. And I couldn’t help feeling so stupid for thinking that we could just waltz onto a college campus or look at some internet profiles and find a killer. Dean was still furious with us, and we had nothing to show for it.

“Lia—”

“All right, already,” Lia said, cutting me off. “Enough with the bonding, Cassie. I’ll share the ice cream, but we’re eating it somewhere else. I’m not in the mood to play well with others, and the next person who asks me to share something dies a slow, painful death.”

“Fair enough.” I cast a glance around the kitchen. “You have someplace in mind?”

At first, I thought Lia was leading me to her bedroom, but once she shut the door behind us, I realized that wasn’t her endgame. She shoved open her window and, with one last wicked glance over her shoulder, climbed out onto the roof.

Great, I thought. I stuck my head out the window just in time to see her disappear around a corner. I hesitated for a split second, then climbed carefully out the window myself. The roof’s slope was gentle outside of Lia’s room, but I kept a hand on the side of the house anyway. I edged my way toward the corner I’d seen Lia take. When I’d made the turn, I let out a heavy breath.

The roof flattened out. Lia was sitting with her back up against the siding, her mile-long legs stretched out nearly to the edge of the gutter. Watching my step, I made my way toward her and slid into a sitting position myself. Wordlessly, Lia tilted the carton of rocky road toward me.

I dug my spoon into the ice cream and gouged out a hefty spoonful.

Lia delicately arched one brow. “Someone’s courting an ice cream headache.”

I nibbled a bite off the end of my spoon. “We should have brought bowls.”

“There’re a lot of things we should have done.” Lia sat perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The sun was just now setting, but I got the distinct feeling that if I hadn’t been with her, she would have stayed out here all night, two stories off the ground, her feet brushing up against the edge. She was a person who hated being boxed in. She hated being trapped. She always had an exit strategy.