They continued with the problems. Then Eric said, “How’s your brother’s case going?”

This wasn’t as surprising as Eric knowing where she was going to college. Maggie had been a major character in the documentary. The faithful daughter and sister helping chase down leads. It had given her a moment of celebrity at school, but it was more of the pitying variety. Though some of the internet trolls speculated that when she got older—she’d been only twelve when the documentary was filmed—she’d be quite the beauty, like her mother. Or her “hottie” brothers.

Ugh. It was all the world seemed to care about. And in pure hypocrite mode, here she was fawning over handsome Eric.

“We’ve had some setbacks with the case, but I got a great tip the other day,” Maggie said. “Setbacks” was an understatement. The United States Supreme Court wasn’t a setback; it was the end of the road. But Eric likely wouldn’t care about the intricacies of the legal system. Or was she underestimating him?

“A tip? You mean like evidence or something?”

“Yeah, wanna see?”

He nodded as she pulled out her phone.

“I run social media for the case. We get a lot of weirdos and trolls, but also some legit people. And we get tips now and then.” She tapped and swiped as she spoke. “Usually it’s nothing, but then this came in.”

It was a jostling cell phone video, the first two seconds a blur of bodies, music blaring in the background.

“What is it?” Eric said, leaning in closer.

“It’s the party.” She was assuming that Eric, like everyone else, understood the shorthand from the documentary. The night her brother’s girlfriend, Charlotte, was killed, she’d attended a house party. Danny had been there too, like all the seniors. The local police had raided the festivities, and Danny and Charlotte had been separated in the melee. Witnesses reported seeing a very intoxicated Danny later that night at an after-party in a cornfield; Charlotte was never seen alive again.

“It could be him, the U.P.,” Maggie said, pointing at the screen.

“You mean, like, the Unknown Partygoer?”

He’d definitely watched the documentary. The Unknown Partygoer had become a thing—Facebook memes, late-night talk-show bits, even shirts. The filmmakers focused on the fact that the police had identified everyone at the party that night except for one guest. A white male who a witness had aged anywhere from his early to late twenties and who no one seemed to know. The person the documentary suggested was the real killer. Who many believed was a loser named Bobby Ray Hayes, the Smasher. Maggie put the video in slow motion.

Eric looked on, seeming fascinated.

“The date stamp shows it was the night of the party. Phones weren’t as sophisticated then, but we can tell that much.” Maggie directed a finger at the screen. “There’s Danny.” On the tiny screen, her brother was laughing before downing the contents of a red Solo cup. He wore a tank top, showing off his bulging biceps and looking like a bro with a group of boys in letterman jackets. Right before the video turned black, they saw the silhouette of a face.

“There,” Maggie said, freezing the video.

“You think it’s him? Like, the real Unknown Partygoer?” Eric asked.

“I’m not sure. But it raises more questions than it answers, because that is not Bobby Ray Hayes.” Her father had never believed the Hayes narrative. The pieces didn’t fit as perfectly as the documentary had suggested.

“Holy shit. Who sent it to you?”

“I don’t know. It was an anonymous tip.”

“What do the cops say?”

Maggie sighed. The cops couldn’t care less, particularly the Nebraska cops in charge of the investigation. As far as they were concerned, Danny Pine’s case had brought them nothing but public scorn and even death threats. One of the cops who’d interrogated Danny had committed suicide after the Netflix series aired.

“They didn’t return my calls. They never do—they say the case is closed.”

“Well, that’s”—Eric searched for the word—“it’s bullshit.”

Maggie smiled. She liked him.

“So, tonight,” Eric said, “some of us are getting together. At Flaherty’s house.”

Mike Flaherty. Another member of senior class royalty.

“You mean like a party?” Maggie asked.

“Not really,” Eric said. “Well, sorta. But maybe you could stop by. It’s the last blowout before everyone leaves for spring break.”

In the Pine home—after what happened to Charlotte—few dangers were greater than a high school house party. Maggie wasn’t sure whether it was because her father thought there was real peril or if it was just the memories it conjured.

“Maybe,” she said, surprised it had escaped her lips. The Center’s bell rang.

“Maybe,” he repeated, drawing out the word, flirtatious. He gave her a crooked smile. “If you come, we can work more on algebra.”

“Really? You do a lot of math at parties?”

“You wouldn’t want me to fail out, would you? I’d lose my scholarship,” Eric said earnestly. She’d heard that he’d been admitted to the University of Michigan on a lacrosse scholarship. The school was normally well out of reach for a C student, again proving that life was not fair.

“Maybe,” she said again, butterflies floating in her stomach.

“I’ll text you the address.” Eric grabbed his book, then strutted out.

Why was it that they all strutted?

Maggie returned to the check-in desk to help Harper close the Center. They had to finish the log and lock up the room.

“What was that about?” Harper asked.

“What do you mean?”

Her best friend gave her a look.

“He invited me to a party.”

“At Flaherty’s?” Harper said, her mouth agape. Of course she’d already been invited. They were best friends, both bookish young women, but Harper had a wild side, and drifted seamlessly between social groups. One day it was a movie and pizza at Maggie’s, the next hiking with the nature club, the next a rager with the jocks.

“Yeah. He said it was more of a get-together than a party, though.”

Harper shook her head, like Maggie was being naive. “And…?”

“And I don’t know. You know how my dad feels about parties.”

“Mags, we’re graduating and you haven’t been to a single party. You haven’t had one drink. And don’t get me started about sex. Do you really want to go to college so, like, pathetic?”

Maggie swatted her friend with a sheath of papers.

“Come on, let’s go tonight,” Harper said.

“Let me think about it.”

“What’s to think about? You’re sleeping over at my house anyway, so you don’t have to ask your dad. And if the party sucks, we leave.”

Maggie wanted to go. Wanted to see Eric. But she didn’t like sneaking around. Didn’t like the betrayal of a house party, of all things. “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

And think about it she did.

By ten that night Maggie and Harper were pulling up to Mike Flaherty’s house in the back of an Uber.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Maggie watched as the group on the front porch cleared a path for two boys carrying a keg of beer up the steps and through the large front doors. Flaherty’s dad owned a chain of car dealerships, and the place was a sprawling McMansion. The Uber driver honked at some kids who were blocking the half-circle driveway.

“Relax,” Harper said. “It’s gonna be fun. And you look amazing.”

Maggie tugged up her top. She’d borrowed it from Harper, and it showed way too much cleavage. She’d also made the mistake of letting Harper do her makeup. And she’d nixed her glasses for contacts. They felt like grains of sand under her eyelids every time she blinked.

Inside, Maggie’s stomach churned at the scene: a throng of kids bouncing to the beat of pounding dance music, the smell of beer, sweat, and weed.

“Where are his parents?” Maggie asked. It was her first ever high school party. She hadn’t expected it to be so, well, cliché.

Harper shrugged. She led Maggie through the great room, which was now a dance floor filled with kids twerking and grinding. There was even a cheesy DJ bobbing behind a sound system.

They wound through the crowd to the dining room, a formal number with a chandelier, and the site of an epic beer pong game on the long table. Mike Flaherty was at the head of the table wearing no shirt, and some type of headband tied around his forehead. Muscles rippling, Mike stood on tiptoes and took a shot like a basketball player at the free-throw line. The small white ball flew in the air, bounced, hit the lip of a red cup but missed, prompting a so close groan from the crowd.

“You need to relax,” Harper said out of the side of her mouth, sensing Maggie’s stiffness. “I’m going to get us drinks,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”