"There's blood pooling at 4:14's door," someone chokes as rain drums on the dorm roof. The knock of boots on concrete is louder than the rain. A flashlight blade sweeps the hallway. Tape stretches from stair rail to wall—police yellow that looks obscene against dorm stickers and pizza menus. Students press against the lobby windows, collars up, breath fogging the glass. A reporter mutters into a phone. Somewhere outside, a camera clicks on. Harbor City does not sleep when something like this happens. Anna White stands in the stairwell because there's nowhere else to put her feet. Her palms are damp on the metal rail. The rain smells like pennies and wet asphalt. She tells herself, one breath at a time, that she can do this. That is the small thing she does before everything else starts to unspool. Lana Shore is near the bottom of the steps, loose scarf clinging to her neck like a talisman. She laughs too loudly when Officer Neil Booth asks their names. "We live above 414," she says, a practiced cheeriness that doesn't reach her eyes. Her hands fidget with the fringe, twisting it, untwisting it, as if the motion keeps something at bay. Nora Hale keeps her hands stuffed into her coat pockets. She looks like someone who could break a man's jaw for less than a dirty look. Right now she looks smaller—jagged, defensive. June Park presses against the wall, shoulders rounded, shoulders that could have fit