515 Oak Street, New York, 2008. A student named Mark Henderson vanishes. The official story. He stole $2,000 in rent from his roommates and fled. The police filed a warrant for theft. The case went cold. The only witness to what really happened is a gross 1970s vinyl couch.

 For 15 years, the house becomes a campus legend, the smelly couch house. A generation of broke college kids passes through, all accepting the one strange rule from the landlord, Mr. Kurlin. The couch stays. It’s a monstrous puke brown thing wedged permanently in the living room.

 It has a stench that no amount of Fbreze can kill a thick wet wool chemical cherry smell that has its own humidity. The tenants laugh about it. They throw a blanket over it. They warn their friends. They never ever look inside. Then in 2023 came Josh and Ben. They were just two more juniors, roommates since freshman year, desperate for a cheap off-campus house. The $200 rent discount for the non- removable couch seemed like a sweet deal to Ben. But Josh was different.

 He didn’t care about the discount. And after 3 days of living with the smell, he was done rationalizing. He was getting it out, even if it meant cutting it into pieces. Before we continue, I just want to say thank you for taking the time to hear my story. If you’re comfortable, let me know where you’re listening from and what time it is where you are.

 Now, let me tell you my story. Josh didn’t care about the $200 discount. He wasn’t living like this. The couch sat in the middle of their living room like a corpse no one wanted to acknowledge. It was a gross 1970s vinyl thing, brown, cracked, oozing some kind of yellow foam from the seams. The smell hit anyone the second they opened the front door. It wasn’t just stale or musty.

 It was biological, like something died and then kept dying. Ben had been trying to rationalize it since they moved in 3 days ago. It’s just old man vintage, he’d said, throwing another blanket over it. That made four blankets. They could still smell it. Josh stood in the kitchen staring at the lease agreement Kurlin made them sign.

 There it was in actual typed text. Tenant agrees to a $200 rent reduction in consideration of the non- removable couch in the main living area. Non removable. Not included. Not provided. Non removable. Ben. We’re getting rid of it. Josh said firmly. Ben looked up from his phone. Dude, the lease says, he started. I don’t care what the lease says, Josh interrupted. I’m not spending a year smelling that thing. Ben stood up.

 He’d been Josh’s roommate since freshman year. He knew when Josh was serious. All right, he sighed. How do we move it? It’s like wedged in here. Josh grabbed a box cutter from the kitchen drawer and a crowbar from the garage. We’re not moving it, he said. We’re destroying it. We’ll haul it out in pieces. Ben looked at the couch, then at Josh, then back at the couch.

 Kurlin’s going to be pissed, he warned. Kurlin, can sue me, Josh replied. Let’s go. They dragged the coffee table out of the way. Josh knelt down next to the couch and pressed the box cutter against the vinyl. It was tougher than expected. He had to saw back and forth. The smell got worse immediately. Ben gagged and backed up. “Jesus Christ, what is that?” Ben choked out. “Just help me,” Josh grunted.

 Ben held his shirt over his nose and grabbed the crowbar. He jammed it into the back of the couch and yanked. There was a wet ripping sound. A chunk of foam came out, dark and soaked in something. It wasn’t water. It was thick. It had a color neither of them wanted to look at. Josh cut deeper. His hand brushed against something solid, not foam.

 He reached in and pulled. It was a wallet. black leather soaked through with whatever fluid was leaking out of this couch. Josh flipped it open. The plastic was warped, but he could still see the ID inside. A student ID from this school. The photo showed a kid, maybe 20, smiling. The name said Mark. The year said 2008. Ben, Josh said, his voice quiet. Ben, look at this.

 Ben leaned over. His face went white. Why is there a wallet in the couch? He whispered. Josh didn’t answer. He was pulling back more foam. His hands were shaking. The smell was unbearable now, but he couldn’t stop. He pulled back a section of vinyl and foam and saw it. A face. It wasn’t a face anymore. It was leather, brown, and shrunken, and the eyes were gone, but the teeth were there.

 The mouth was open like it was screaming. Ben screamed. Actual screaming. He stumbled backward and hit the wall. Oh my god. Oh my god, Josh. What the [ __ ] Josh dropped the foam. He was on his feet, backing away. His brain was trying to process what he just saw. There was a body in the couch. A human body in the couch. The couch they’d been sitting next to for 3 days.

 The couch that 20 other groups of students had been living with for 15 years. “We need to call the police,” Josh said, his voice shaking. Ben was hyperventilating. “They’re going to think we did it,” he gasped. “They’re going to think we killed him. We didn’t kill him,” Josh said. “He’s from 2008. We were in middle school. They’re going to think we knew,” Ben insisted.

“They’re going to think we moved in here because we knew.” Josh pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely dial. The operator answered, “He didn’t even know what he was saying. Something about a body. Something about 515 Oak Street. something about please send someone right now.

 The operator told him to stay on the line. She told him not to touch anything. She told him officers were on the way. Josh looked at Ben. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall staring at the couch. Josh looked at the wallet in his hand. Mark 2008. The couch had been here for 15 years. Someone put him in there. Someone knew.

 and someone had been renting this house out year after year, telling students about a smelly couch discount like it was a joke. Sirens approached in the distance. Detective Harding was a woman in her 40s with short gray hair and the look of someone who had seen every possible variation of human stupidity.

 She separated Josh and Ben immediately. Josh sat in the kitchen. Ben went to the garage. Cops were all over the house. photographers, people in white suits. Someone put tape across the front door. Harding sat across from Josh at the kitchen table. She had a notebook. She didn’t smile. Walk me through it, she said. Start from when you moved in, Josh told her.

 3 days ago. Signed the lease. Noticed the smell. Decided to get rid of the couch. Found the wallet. Found the body. And you just decided today to cut it open? Harding asked. Yeah, Josh replied. Why today? She pressed. Why not yesterday? Why not last week? We moved in 3 days ago, Josh repeated. Right, Harding said.

So you move in, you smell this couch, and your first instinct is to destroy it, not to call the landlord, not to ask for a replacement. You immediately go for a box cutter and a crowbar. Josh shifted in his chair. It smelled really bad. Uh-huh. She said, writing something in her notebook.

 And you didn’t think to ask why it smelled so bad. I thought it was just old, Josh said. You go to school here? Harding asked. Yeah, junior year. What’s your major? Computer science. So, you’re a smart kid? Harding stated. You’re telling me a smart kid like you doesn’t think it’s weird that there’s a clause in your lease specifically about not removing a couch? I thought it was weird.

 Yeah, but you removed it anyway. I didn’t remove it, Josh corrected her. I destroyed it. Why? She asked. Because I didn’t want to live with it. Harding leaned back. Here’s what I’m struggling with, Josh. You sign a lease that explicitly says, don’t touch the couch. You move in. The couch smells bad.

 And instead of calling the landlord, instead of asking questions, you take a crowbar to it and conveniently discover a 15-year-old body. Do you see why that looks suspicious? Josh’s stomach dropped. You think I did this? I think the timing is very convenient, she replied. I was 12 in 2008, Josh said quickly. I know, Harding said. I’m not saying you killed him. I’m asking why you’re the one who found him.

 15 years, dozens of tenants, and you’re the one who decides to rip the couch open. Josh didn’t have an answer for that. It did sound weird when she said it like that. Have you ever met the landlord? Mr. Kurlin, she asked. Once, Josh said. When we signed the lease, what did he say about the couch? He said it came with the house. He said he’d knock 200 off the rent if we kept it. Harding wrote that down.

 Did he say why? No, just that it was stuck. Stuck how? I don’t know. Josh admitted. He said it wouldn’t fit through the door. And that didn’t seem strange to you. Josh stopped. What had he thought? That some previous tenant had shoved a couch through a doorway and couldn’t get it back out. That made sense at the time.

It didn’t make sense now. Harding stood up. We’re going to need you to stay available. Don’t leave town. If I have more questions, I’ll call you. That’s it? Josh asked. For now, what about the body? What about Mark? Harding looked at Josh like he just said something interesting.

 How do you know his name is Mark? Josh gestured weakly. His student ID was in the wallet. Uh-huh. She said. And you opened the wallet? Yeah. Before the police arrived. Oh no. I was trying to figure out who he was. Josh explained. Josh, when you find a body, you don’t go through its pockets, Harding said sharply. You call the police and you wait.

 You contaminated a crime scene. I didn’t know it was a crime scene. I thought it was just a wallet. You found a body in a couch and you thought the wallet wasn’t evidence? Josh didn’t have an answer for that either. Harding picked up her notebook. We’ll be in touch. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t talk to anyone about this. She walked out.

 Josh sat alone in the kitchen. Through the doorway, he could see Ben in the garage. He looked like he’d been crying. A cop was talking to him. Ben was shaking his head over and over. Josh looked at the living room. The couch was mostly gone now. They’d cut it apart and put the pieces in bags. There were numbered markers on the floor. The smell was still there.

 Josh had found a body. The police thought he was a suspect. And somewhere out there, the person who put Mark in that couch was watching the news and hoping this went away. They wouldn’t let Josh and Ben back in the house. It was a crime scene now.

 They got an hour to grab clothes and laptops and then were told to find somewhere else to stay. The school wouldn’t reassign them housing until the situation was resolved. That’s what the housing office called it. The situation. They ended up in a motel off Route 9. The kind of place that rented by the week and didn’t ask questions.

 Two beds, a TV that didn’t work, a bathroom with a lock that stuck. Ben lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. I’m transferring. Ben announced. Ben. Josh started. I’m serious. Ben said, “I’m calling my parents tomorrow. I’m transferring. I can’t do this. We didn’t do anything wrong.” Josh argued. “Josh, we found a dead body in our couch,” Ben said, sitting up.

 “The police think we’re involved. My parents are going to lose their minds. The police don’t think we’re involved,” Josh said, trying to sound convincing. “They’re just doing their job. That detective thinks we did something.” Ben shot back. “You heard her. She thinks we knew. She’s just covering all the bases. We’ll be fine.

You don’t know that. Ben said he was right. Josh didn’t know that. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. The water stain above him looked like a face. He closed his eyes, but all he saw was Mark’s face, leathery and brown and screaming. Josh grabbed his laptop. He needed to know who Mark was. He needed to know what happened.

 He typed Mark 2008 and the name of their school into Google. The first result was a police report from October 2008. He clicked it. Warrant issued for student in theft case. Mark, last name redacted, 20, a junior at university name, is wanted by campus police for theft.

 According to the report, Mark allegedly stole $2,000 from his residence at 515 Oak Street. Roommates reported the theft on November 1st, 2008. Mark has not been seen since October 31st. Anyone with information is asked to contact campus police. Josh read it three times. Mark didn’t disappear. He wasn’t a missing person. He was a fugitive.

 He was wanted for theft. The amount was $2,000. That was the exact amount of rent for the house. And the address was their house. 515 Oak Street. Josh sat up. Ben, Ben, look at this. Ben didn’t move. I don’t care. Mark was wanted for stealing $2,000. Josh pressed. That was the rent.

 Someone reported him for stealing the rent. So, Ben mumbled. So, what if he didn’t steal it? What if someone killed him and then reported the theft to cover it up? Ben finally looked at him. Josh, stop. Just stop. Let the police figure it out. The police think we did something, Josh said. They’re not looking for anyone else. That’s not our problem. Yes, it is. Josh insisted.

 We found him. We’re the ones who opened the couch. If they don’t find who did this, we’re the ones who look guilty. Ben stood up. I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up with this conspiracy stuff. He went into the bathroom. Josh heard the shower start. He went back to his laptop. He pulled up the lease agreement.

 He’d saved a PDF copy when they signed it. He scrolled through the standard clauses. Rent due on the first, no smoking, no pets, and then he found it again. Tenant agrees to a $200 rent reduction in consideration of the non- removable couch in the main living area.

 Tenant acknowledges that the couch cannot be removed due to structural limitations and agrees not to attempt removal. Structural limitations. That was the excuse. But Josh had seen the doorway. The couch wasn’t that big. You could angle it. You could take the legs off. You could get it out if you wanted to, unless you didn’t want to get it out. Unless the whole point was to make sure it stayed there. Josh looked at the signature at the bottom of the lease.

Mr. Kurlin, owner. There was a phone number. He stared at it for a long time. This was stupid. He should let the police handle this. He should go to sleep and wait for them to call him. But Harding didn’t believe him. She thought he was hiding something. And if she thought he was guilty, she wasn’t looking for the person who actually did this. Josh picked up his phone. He dialed the number. It rang three times.

A man answered. His voice was flat, tired. Hello, Mr. Kurlin. Josh asked. Yes. Who is this? It’s Josh. I’m one of your tenants at 515 Oak. There was a pause. Josh, right? Kurlin said, “I heard about what happened. The police called me. Terrible situation.” “Yeah,” Josh said. “It’s pretty crazy.

 I’m sure you boys are shaken up.” Kurlin said, “If you need anything, actually, I was wondering,” Josh interrupted. “Did you know about the couch?” Another pause. Longer this time. “No, what?” Kurlin asked. “That there was a body in it.” Of course not, Kurlin said. I’m as shocked as you are.

 I’ve been renting that house for years. I had no idea. His voice didn’t change. It was still flat, still tired. Like Josh just asked him about a plumbing issue. Right. Okay. I just wanted to check, Josh said. If the police have questions, I’m happy to cooperate. Kurlin added. I’ve already given them my statement. Sure, thanks. Josh hung up.

 Ben came out of the bathroom. “Who were you talking to?” he asked. “Kurlin.” “Why?” Ben asked, alarmed. “I wanted to see how he’d react.” And he wasn’t surprised, Josh said. Josh didn’t sleep. He lay in bed and ran the conversation through his head over and over. Kurlin wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t angry that Josh destroyed the couch. He wasn’t worried about the body.

 He was calm, practiced like he’d been preparing for this call for 15 years. At 6:00 in the morning, Josh got up. Ben was still asleep. Josh grabbed his laptop and went to sit in the motel parking lot. He needed to think. Mark was reported as a thief. $2,000. That was the rent. The report was filed on November 1st, 2008.

 The day after he disappeared. The day after October 31st, Josh opened Facebook. He searched for Mark’s name and the year 2008. He found a memorial page. It was made by his parents in 2009. There were comments from friends. We miss you. Hope you’re okay. Come home. His parents thought he ran away. They didn’t know he was dead.

They’d been hoping for 15 years. Josh scrolled through the photos. Mark looked normal, smiling. playing guitar, sitting on a couch. Not the couch, a different couch with roommates. There was one photo dated October 2008. The caption said, “Last pic before Mark disappeared. Still looking for you, brother.

” Josh clicked on the profile of the person who posted it. His name was Aaron. Josh sent him a message. Hi, my name is Josh. I’m a student at the same school Mark went to. I found something and I think it might be related to Mark. Can we talk? He didn’t expect a response. It was 6:00 in the morning, but his phone buzzed 30 seconds later. Aaron replied, “What did you find?” Josh hesitated.

 “He shouldn’t be doing this. He should let the police handle it, but Harding thought he was involved. She wasn’t looking for the truth. She was looking for a case she could close.” Josh typed, “I found Mark. He’s been in the house the whole time. Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.

 Aaron, are you serious, Josh? Yes. The police are investigating, but I need to know what happened. Did Mark have any problems with the landlord? Aaron? Kurlin? Yeah. Mark hated him. The house was falling apart, and Kurlin never fixed anything. There was a bathroom leak that went on for months.

 Mark was the only one who actually tried to get him to do something about it. Josh, did they argue? Aaron all the time. Mark kept records. He had this notebook where he tracked everything wrong with the house. He was going to report Kurland to the city. Josh, do you still have the notebook? Aaron? No. The police took all of Mark’s stuff when he disappeared. Gave it back to his parents eventually.

 Why? Josh stared at the screen. The notebook. If Mark was tracking Kurlin’s violations, if he was planning to report him, that was motive. That was why Kurland killed him. Josh typed. Thanks. This helps. Josh went back to the motel room. Ben was awake now. He was packing his bag. What are you doing? Josh asked.

 I’m leaving. Ben said. My parents are picking me up in an hour. I’m going home. Ben, you can’t leave, the police said. The police said don’t leave town, Ben cut in. My parents house is 20 minutes away. That’s not leaving town. What about school? Josh asked. I’ll figure it out. I can’t stay here, Josh. I can’t do this.

 Josh wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Ben was right. This wasn’t his problem. He just wanted a cheap place to live. He didn’t sign up for this. Okay, I get it, Josh said. Ben stopped packing and looked at Josh. What are you going to do? I don’t know. Figure it out. Josh, you need to let the police handle this. Ben pleaded.

 You’re not a detective. You’re going to get yourself in trouble. I’m already in trouble, Josh said. Harding thinks I did something. If I don’t figure this out, I’m the one who’s going to get blamed. Ben zipped up his bag. Then get a lawyer. Don’t go playing Batman. I can’t afford a lawyer, Josh muttered.

 Then call your parents. They don’t have money either, Ben sighed. Just be careful. Okay, don’t do anything stupid. I won’t, Josh promised. Ben left. Josh was alone in the motel room. He sat on the bed and stared at his phone. He needed that notebook. If Mark was documenting Kurlin’s violations, that was proof. That was evidence of motive.

 That was something he could take to Harding, but the notebook was with Mark’s parents. And Josh didn’t even know who they were. He went back to the memorial page. There was a post from his mother dated 2 years ago. It’s been 13 years since Mark disappeared. We still don’t know what happened. If anyone has information, please contact us.

 There was a phone number. Josh stared at it. This was insane. He couldn’t call Mark’s parents. What was he going to say? Hi, I’m the guy who found your son’s body in a couch. Can I look through his stuff? But he didn’t have a choice. Harding wasn’t going to believe him without evidence.

 And Kurlin wasn’t going to confess unless Josh could prove he had a reason to kill Mark. Josh dialed the number. A woman answered. “Hello. Hi,” Josh said, his voice unsteady. “My name is Josh. I’m a student at the school your son attended. I need to talk to you about Mark. Mark’s parents arrived 2 hours later. Josh was still in the motel room. He’d given them the address and they said they’d come right away.

 He spent the entire 2 hours pacing and wondering if he was making a huge mistake. There was a knock. Josh opened the door. Mark’s parents were in their 50s. His mother was small with gray hair and red eyes. His father was tall and thin and looked like he hadn’t slept in years. They were both holding each other like they were afraid to let go. Josh? Mark’s mother asked. Yeah. Come in, please.

They sat on Ben’s bed. Josh sat on his. Nobody knew how to start. Mark’s mother spoke first. The police called us yesterday, she said, her voice trembling. They said they found remains in a house at 5:15 Oak. They said it might be Mark. I’m so sorry, Josh said. I’m the one who found him. She covered her mouth. His father put his arm around her.

 “Can you tell us what happened?” his father asked. Josh told them everything. The couch, the smell, the decision to cut it open. Finding the wallet, finding Mark. His mother was crying now. 15 years, she wept. He was there the whole time. 20 minutes away. We drove past that street a 100 times looking for him. I’m sorry, Josh said again. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. His father wiped his eyes.

 The police told us he was wanted for theft. They said he stole money and ran away. We never believed that. Mark wasn’t a thief. I don’t think he was either, Josh agreed. I think someone framed him. They both looked at Josh. Who? His father asked. The landlord. Mr. Kurlin, Josh said.

 I think Mark was killed during an argument about rent or repairs. and Kurlin reported the theft to make it look like Mark ran away. His father leaned forward. Do the police know this? I tried to tell them. Josh said. They don’t believe me. They think I’m making it up. Why would they think that? His mother asked.

 Because I’m the one who found him. They think I’m involved somehow. His mother shook her head. That’s ridiculous. You were a child in 2008. I know, but they don’t have any other suspects. Josh explained. And Kurlin has an alibi. He reported the theft just like Mark’s roommates did. On paper, he looks clean. His father stood up. Then we need to find proof.

 What do you need? I need Mark’s things, Josh said. One of his friends told me Mark kept a notebook. He was documenting problems with the house. If I can find that notebook, it might show why Kurlin killed him. His mother looked at his father. The box, she said. What box? Josh asked.

 The police gave us a box of Mark’s belongings. From his room, she explained. We never opened it. Josh’s heart started racing. Do you still have it? It’s in our garage, his father said. We couldn’t throw it away, but we couldn’t look at it either. Can I see it? She nodded. We’ll bring it. They left. Josh sat in the motel room and waited.

 30 minutes later, they were back. His father was carrying a cardboard box. It was taped shut. There was dust on the top. He set it on the bed. We haven’t touched this in 13 years, he said. Are you sure you want me to open it? Josh asked. His mother nodded. If it helps find out what happened to Mark, then yes. Josh cut the tape with his pocketk knife. He opened the box.

 Inside were textbooks, a video game controller. Josh pulled it out. The cover was worn. There was a coffee stain on the front. He opened it. The first page said house ledger, 515 Oak Street. Josh flipped through the pages. It was all there. Mark was tracking everything. Bills, chores, who paid what, who cleaned what, and then starting in September 2008, there were notes about the house.

 September 15th, bathroom sink leaking, told Kurlin. He said he’d fix it. September 30th, sink still leaking. Called Kurlin again. He said he’d come by next week. October 10th. Sink worse. Water damage on ceiling below bathroom. Kurlin still hasn’t come. October 20th. Talk to city inspector. He said I can file a complaint if Kurlin doesn’t fix it by end of month.

 And then the last entry. October 31st, 2008. October 31st. Kurlin coming for rent. $2,000. 4:00 in the evening. Still hasn’t fixed leak. Don’t let him forget. That was it. That was the last thing Mark wrote. Josh showed it to his parents. His mother started crying again. His father stared at the page. He was going to confront him.

 His father said, “That’s why Kurlin killed him. We need to take this to the police,” Josh said, closing the notebook. I’ll take it, he offered. I’ll give it to Detective Harding. His father shook his head. She doesn’t believe you. We’ll take it. We’re his parents. She has to listen to us. Are you sure? Josh asked. Yes, his mother said. You’ve done enough. You found our son.

 You’re trying to get him justice. Let us help. Josh handed him the notebook. He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Thank you, Josh. Mark’s father said for everything they left. Josh was alone again. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

 For the first time since they found the body, he felt like maybe this was going to be okay. Maybe Harding would believe them. Maybe she’d arrest Kurlin. Maybe this nightmare was almost over. Josh was asleep when the door opened. He didn’t hear it at first. He was dreaming about the couch, about cutting into it, about finding Mark.

 But then there was a sound, a creek, the motel door closing. Josh opened his eyes. The room was dark. The clock said 2:47 in the morning. Someone was standing at the foot of his bed. Josh sat up fast. His hand fumbled for the lamp. He turned it on. It was curling. He was wearing the same clothes Josh saw him in when they signed the lease.

 cockies, a button-down shirt, but now his hair was messy and his eyes were red and he was holding a crowbar. Mr. Kurlin, Josh started. Shut up, Kurlin slurred. He stepped forward. The crowbar was shaking in his hand. He was drunk. Josh could smell it from here. How did you find me? Josh asked, his voice trembling.

 I own 30 properties in this town, Kurlin sneered. You think I don’t know which motel take cash and don’t ask questions? Josh’s phone was on the nightstand. He reached for it. Don’t, Kurlin commanded, raising the crowbar. Put your hands where I can see them. Josh put his hands up. His heart was pounding.

 What do you want? I want you to stop. Kurlin said. I want you to stop talking to his parents. I want you to stop digging. I want you to let this go. I can’t do that. Josh said. Yes, you can, Kurlin insisted. You can tell the police you made a mistake. You can say you were confused. You can say you contaminated the evidence and now you’re not sure what you saw.

 They’re not going to believe that. They’ll believe it if you sell it. Kurlin said, “You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.” Josh was calculating distances. The door was 15 ft away. Kurlin was between him and the door. The crowbar was 3 ft long. If Josh ran, Kurlin would hit him before he got past. Why did you kill him? Josh asked. Kurlin’s face twisted.

 I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. What happened? Josh pressed. He wouldn’t shut up. Kurlin yelled. About the leak, about the bathroom, about reporting me to the city. I told him I’d fix it. I told him I just needed time. But he wouldn’t listen. He kept pushing.

 He said if I didn’t fix it by the end of the month, he was going to file a complaint. So, you killed him over a bathroom leak? Josh asked in disbelief. It wasn’t just the leak, Kurlin spat. He was going to ruin me. I had eight other properties with violations. If the city started investigating, I’d lose everything. My houses, my income, everything.

 So, you pushed him. I didn’t mean to push him that hard, Kurlin said, his voice dropping. He fell. He hit his head on the corner of the kitchen counter. There was so much blood. I panicked. And you put him in the couch. I didn’t know what else to do. Kurlin whimpered. I couldn’t leave him there. I couldn’t call the police, so I put him in the couch.

 I was going to move it. I was going to take it to a dump or burn it or something, but I couldn’t get it through the door. It was stuck. And then his roommates came home and I told them Mark had stolen the rent and I filed a police report and it worked. Everyone believed me and you kept renting the house.

 Josh said, “What was I supposed to do? Let it sit empty. Someone would have gotten suspicious. So I rented it and I told every tenant the same thing. The couch stays 200 off the rent. No one ever questioned it until me.” Josh finished. Until you, Kurlin agreed, stepping closer. The crowbar was inches from Josh’s face.

 You should have taken the discount, kid. You should have just left it alone. Josh was looking at the crowbar at Kurlin’s hands. They were shaking. He was drunk and scared and desperate. This was not a man who planned this. This was a man who was improvising. Kurlin, put the crowbar down, Josh said, trying to sound calm. We can figure this out.

 There’s nothing to figure out. Kurlin snarled. You’re going to recant your statement. You’re going to tell the police you were wrong. I can’t do that. Yes, you can. Or I’ll do to you what I did to him. Josh’s phone was still on the nightstand. The screen was dark, but he remembered. He’d called Detective Harding earlier. He’d left a voicemail. He told her about the notebook.

 He told her Mark’s parents were bringing it to her. The call was still in his recent calls. If he could reach his phone, if he could call her, if he could keep Kurlin talking long enough for her to hear this. Okay. Okay, I’ll do it. Josh lied. I’ll recant. Just put the crowbar down. Kurlin lowered it slightly. You’re lying. I’m not. Josh insisted. I swear.

 I’ll tell them I made a mistake. I’ll say I contaminated the scene. Whatever you want. I don’t believe you. Kurlin said. Then what do you want me to do? Josh asked. Kurlin raised the crowbar again. I want you to disappear. Kurlin swung. Josh rolled off the bed. The crowbar hit the mattress where his head had been a second ago. There was a ripping sound. Foam exploded from the impact.

 Josh scrambled toward the nightstand. His hand closed around his phone. He didn’t have time to unlock it. He just pressed the side button. Emergency call. He dialed 9/11 without looking. Kurlin yanked the crowbar out of the mattress. “You stupid kid,” he yelled. “You should have just stayed quiet.” He swung again. Josh ducked.

 The crowbar hit the lamp. Glass shattered. The room went dark except for the light from the bathroom. Josh was crawling toward the door. His phone was in his hand. He could hear ringing. Someone was answering. “911. What’s your a voice said, Detective Harding? Josh screamed into the phone. I need Detective Harding. This is Josh.

I’m at the Route 9 motel, room 14. Kurlin’s here. He’s trying to kill me. Kurlin grabbed Josh’s ankle. He dragged him backward. Josh kicked. His foot connected with Kurlin’s face. He let go. Josh was on his feet. He was running for the door. Kurlin was behind him. Josh could hear him breathing. He could hear the crowbar cutting through the air.

Josh grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. It was locked. He was fumbling with the deadbolt. The crowbar hit the door next to his head. The wood splintered. Josh got the dead bolt open. He yanked the door. It opened 6 in and then stopped. The chain. He forgot about the chain. Kurlin grabbed Josh’s shoulder. He spun him around. They were face to face.

 Kurlin smelled like whiskey and sweat and desperation. It was an accident. Kurlin shrieked. He shouldn’t have pushed me. He shouldn’t have threatened me. Josh was holding his phone up between them. The screen was lit. The call was still connected.

 The operator was saying something, but Josh couldn’t hear it over the sound of his own heart. You killed him over a bathroom leak. Josh accused. It wasn’t just the leak. Kurlin roared. He was going to ruin my life. I worked my whole life to buy those properties. I wasn’t going to let some kid destroy everything because he couldn’t wait a few weeks for a repair.

 So, you put him in a couch and rented out the house for 15 years, Josh said. I didn’t have a choice, Kurlin cried. What was I supposed to do? Turn myself in? Go to prison? I have a family. I have a life. Mark had a life, too, Josh said. Kurlin’s face crumpled. For a second, he looked like he was going to cry. Then his expression hardened. He raised the crowbar.

 “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. But I can’t go to prison.” The door exploded inward. The chain ripped out of the wall. Detective Harding and two uniformed cops burst into the room. Harding had her gun drawn. “Drop the weapon,” she commanded. “Drop it now.” Kurlin froze. The crowbar was still raised above his head. He looked at Josh, then at Harding, then back at Josh. Drop it,” she yelled again.

 He dropped it. It hit the floor with a clang. The two cops moved in. They grabbed his arms. They forced him to the ground. One of them was cuffing him. The other was reading him his rights. Harding walked over to Josh. “You okay?” she asked. Josh was shaking. His legs felt like they were going to give out.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I got your voicemail,” she explained. about the notebook. I was already on my way when you called 9/11. Did you hear him? Josh asked. Did you hear what he said? She held up her phone. The screen showed an active call. Every word, she said. I kept the line open when dispatch patched me through. Josh looked at Kurlin. He was on the ground.

 His face was pressed against the motel carpet. He wasn’t fighting. He was just lying there. Harding walked over to him. Mr. Kurlin, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mark last name and the attempted murder of Josh last name. You have the right to remain silent. She kept talking, but Josh stopped listening. He was sliding down the wall. He was sitting on the floor. His phone was still in his hand.

 The 9/11 call was still connected. He hung up. One of the cops helped Kurlin to his feet. They walked him out of the room. He didn’t look at Josh. He just stared at the ground. Harding knelt down next to Josh. “You did good, kid,” she said. “Stupid, but good. I didn’t know what else to do,” Josh whispered. “You almost got yourself killed.

” “I know, but you got him,” she said. “You got a full confession on tape. He’s going away for life.” Josh nodded. He couldn’t speak. The adrenaline was wearing off and everything hurt. Harding stood up. Come on, let’s get you checked out. Paramedics are outside. She helped Josh to his feet. They walked out of the motel room.

 There were police cars everywhere, lights flashing, people watching from other rooms. Mark’s parents were there, standing by one of the police cars. When they saw Josh, they ran over. His mother hugged him. She was crying. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” she sobbed. Josh hugged her back. “I’m sorry it took so long.” The paramedics checked Josh over.

 bruised ribs, some cuts on his hands from the broken glass. Nothing serious. They wanted to take him to the hospital, but he refused. He just wanted this to be over. Detective Harding drove Josh to the police station. She said he needed to give a formal statement. She said it would take a few hours. She bought him coffee from the vending machine and told him to sit tight.

 Josh was in an interview room. It was the same room she’d questioned him in before, but this time she wasn’t treating him like a suspect. This time, she was actually listening. Josh told her everything. The lease, the discount clause, the phone call with Kurlin, the conversation with Mark’s parents, the notebook, every detail. She recorded it all. She asked questions. She made Josh repeat parts.

She wanted to make sure the timeline was clear. She wanted to make sure Kurlin’s confession was admissible. When they were done, it was 6:00 in the morning. Josh had been awake for more than 24 hours. He was exhausted. “What happens now?” Josh asked. Harding closed her notebook. “Now we build the case. We have Kurlin’s confession from tonight.

We have the notebook showing motive. We have the body. We have the false police report he filed in 2008. It’s a strong case. Will he go to prison? If he’s smart, he’ll take a plea deal, she said. Murder in the second degree, he’ll get 20 to life. If he goes to trial, he’s looking at life without parole. Good, Josh said. She looked at Josh.

 You know, you could have gotten yourself killed, right? I know. Why didn’t you just let us handle it? Harding asked. Because you didn’t believe me, Josh replied. You thought I was involved. I was doing my job, she said. I had to eliminate you as a suspect. That’s procedure. I get it. But Mark’s parents spent 15 years thinking their son was a thief who ran away. I couldn’t let that stand.

 Even if it meant putting myself at risk, Harding stood up. You’re a good kid, Josh. Reckless, but good. Go get some sleep. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else. Josh left the police station. It was morning now. The sun was coming up. He didn’t have a car. He didn’t have a place to stay. He called Ben.

 “Josh, where are you?” Ben answered, sounding sleepy. “The police station,” Josh said. “Can you pick me up? What happened?” Kurlin confessed. “He tried to kill me.” “The police arrested him.” There was a long silence. “Are you okay?” Ben asked. “Yeah, I’m fine. Can you come get me? I’m on my way, Ben said.

 Ben picked Josh up 20 minutes later. He was in his dad’s car. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. You’re insane, Ben said as Josh got in. You know that, right? Yeah, I know. What were you thinking? I wasn’t, Josh admitted. I just knew I had to do something. Ben drove Josh to his parents’ house. They were both up. They made him breakfast. They asked him questions.

 They told him he was welcome to stay as long as he needed to. Josh ate eggs and toast and drank orange juice and tried to process everything that had happened. 3 days ago, he was just a college student looking for a cheap place to live. Now he was a witness in a murder case. Now he was the person who solved a 15-year-old mystery. His phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. This is Mark’s mother.

We wanted to thank you again for everything you’ve done. We’re finally able to lay our son to rest. We’re having a small service next week. We’d be honored if you’d attend. Josh texted back. I’ll be there. Ben was looking at him. What are you going to do now? I don’t know. Josh said. Go back to school, I guess. Try to have a normal life.

 You think that’s possible? After all this? Probably not, but I have to try. Ben nodded. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I left. I should have stayed. It’s okay, Josh said. You didn’t sign up for this. Neither did you. No, but someone had to do it. They sat in silence. The sun was fully up now. It was a beautiful day.

 The kind of day where nothing bad should happen. The kind of day where you should be worrying about homework and exams and whether you’re going to make it to class on time. But that wasn’t Josh’s life anymore. That life ended the moment he cut open a couch and found a body. That life ended when he decided to find out who put Mark there.

 Josh didn’t regret it. Mark deserved justice. His parents deserved the truth. Even if it meant risking everything, even if it meant almost getting killed, it was worth it. Because some things were more important than safety. Some things were more important than keeping your head down and staying quiet.

 Some things you just had to do. Even if it scared you, even if it cost you everything, even if no one asked you to. The service was the following Wednesday. It was at a small church on the edge of town. There were maybe 30 people there. Mark’s parents, some extended family, a few friends from college, Josh. Josh sat in the back. He didn’t feel like he belonged here.

 He wasn’t family. He wasn’t Mark’s friend. He was just the person who found him. But Mark’s mother saw him when he walked in. She came over and hugged him and told him to sit up front with the family. Josh told her he was fine in the back. She insisted. So Josh ended up sitting in the third row.

 Mark’s parents were directly in front of him. There was a photo of Mark on an easel next to the casket. He was smiling. He looked young, 20 years old, Josh’s age. The pastor talked about Mark, about his love of music, about his sense of responsibility, about how he was always the one who took care of his friends, the one who made sure everyone had what they needed, the one who documented everything in his little black notebook.

Mark’s mother read a letter she’d written to him. She talked about the day he was born, about teaching him to ride a bike, about dropping him off at college, about the 15 years of not knowing, about the phone call from the police, about finally being able to say goodbye. She broke down halfway through.

Mark’s father finished reading it for her. When the service was over, people filed past the casket. They left flowers. They touched the photo. They cried. Josh stayed in his seat. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know Mark. He didn’t have any memories of him. All he had was the image of Mark’s face in that couch, leathery and brown and screaming. Mark’s father came over.

“Josh, can we talk?” he asked. They stepped outside. “It was cold, November, in upstate New York. The leaves were gone from the trees. Winter was coming. I wanted to tell you something,” Mark’s father said. The police finished their investigation. They confirmed everything. Kurlin confessed. The notebook was enough to establish motive. They’re offering him a plea deal.

 25 to life. Is he taking it? Josh asked. His lawyer says yes. He doesn’t want to go to trial. He knows he’ll lose. Good. They also cleared Mark’s name. His father continued. Officially, the theft charge is being expuned from his record. He’s not a fugitive anymore. He’s a victim. Josh nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

 That’s because of you, Mark’s father said, his voice thick with emotion. You didn’t have to do any of this. You could have just walked away. But you didn’t. You fought for a stranger. You gave us our son back. I’m sorry it took so long, Josh said. It’s not your fault, he replied. It’s Kurland’s fault and the police who didn’t investigate properly in 2008 and the system that let a landlord get away with murder for 15 years.

 You’re the one person in this whole mess who did the right thing. Mark’s father pulled Josh into a hug. Josh hugged him back. They stood there for a long time. When they went back inside, people were leaving. Mark’s mother was talking to the pastor. She saw Josh and waved him over. Josh, I want you to have something, she said. She handed Josh Mark’s notebook. The black one with the coffee stain.

 I can’t take this, Josh said. It’s evidence. The police made copies, she explained. They said we could have the original back. I think Mark would want you to have it. Why? Because you’re like him, she said, smiling sadly. You see something wrong and you try to fix it. Even when it’s hard, even when it’s dangerous.

 That’s what Mark did. That’s what got him killed. But it’s also what made him a good person. Josh took the notebook. It was heavier than he remembered. “Thank you.” “No,” she said. “Thank you.” They left. Josh stood alone in the church. He opened the notebook. He flipped to the last page. October 31st, 2008. The last thing Mark wrote. Josh pulled out a pen.

Below Mark’s last entry, he wrote November 15th, 2023. Justice served. Rest in peace, Mark. Josh closed the notebook. He left the church. Ben was waiting for him in the parking lot. How’d it go? Ben asked. It was sad, but good, Josh replied. His parents seem at peace. What now? Now we find a new place to live and we try to forget about that couch.

 Think we can? Ben asked. Probably not. But we can try. They drove back to Ben’s parents’ house. The school had agreed to let them break their lease without penalty. They were giving them new housing for the spring semester, a different building, a different neighborhood, no history, no smells, no bodies.

 Josh was looking forward to normal, to classes and homework, and worrying about stupid things like what to have for dinner, to not being the person who found a body, to not being the person who almost got killed. But Josh knew that wasn’t going to happen. People knew who he was now. The story had been on the news. Students recognized him on campus.

 They pointed and whispered, “That’s the guy who found the body in the couch.” Josh was famous for something he never wanted to be famous for, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat because Mark deserved justice and someone had to give it to him. Two weeks later, Detective Harding called Josh. Josh, we need you to come to the station, she said.

 There’s someone who wants to talk to you. Who? He asked. Kurlin’s defense attorney. She wants to interview you for the plea deal. I already gave my statement. Josh said, “I know, but she wants to ask you some follow-up questions. It’s routine. It’ll help solidify the case.” Josh didn’t want to go.

 He didn’t want to see anything related to Kurlin ever again, but Harding said it was important, so he went. The attorney’s name was Linda Morrison. She was in her 40s, wearing a gray suit, carrying a leather briefcase. She looked tired. They sat in the same interview room. She recorded the conversation. She asked Josh to walk through the timeline again.

 Finding the couch, cutting it open, finding the wallet, finding the body, calling Kurlin, the motel, the attack. Josh told her everything. She didn’t interrupt. She just took notes. When Josh was done, she leaned back. Can I ask you a question off the record? Okay. Josh agreed. Why did you do it? She asked. Why did you keep investigating when the police told you not to? Josh thought about it. Because nobody else was going to, he said.

 Detective Harding thought I was involved. Kurlin had gotten away with it for 15 years. Mark’s parents thought their son was a thief. Someone had to care enough to find out the truth. Morrison nodded slowly. My client wants me to argue that Mark’s death was accidental, that it was manslaughter, not murder, that Kurlin panicked and made bad choices, but never intended to kill anyone. And Josh asked, “And I wanted you to know that I don’t believe that,” she said.

 “I’ve been a defense attorney for 20 years. I’ve represented a lot of people who made mistakes. But what Kurlin did to putting Mark in that couch, filing false police reports, renting out that house for 15 years, that wasn’t panic, that was calculation. That was someone who chose to hide a crime rather than face the consequences.

So why are you defending him? Josh asked. Because everyone deserves a defense. That’s how the system works, she replied. But I wanted you to know that I’m going to recommend he take the plea deal 25 to life. Because if this goes to trial, the jury will hear that confession you recorded. They’ll hear him threaten you.

 They’ll see Mark’s notebook and he’ll get life without parole. Good, Josh said. Morrison stood up. You did a good thing, Josh. Not a lot of people would have put themselves at risk like that. I just did what needed to be done. That’s exactly my point, she said. Most people wouldn’t have. Most people would have let it go. You didn’t. She left.

 Harding came in a few minutes later. How’d it go? She asked. Fine. She’s recommending the plea deal. Good. Harding said. Kurlin’s taking it. He’ll be sentenced next month. You’ll probably have to testify at the sentencing hearing. Okay. Harding sat down. I owe you an apology. Josh looked at her. For what? For treating you like a suspect, she said.

 for not listening when you told me about Kurlin, for making you feel like you had to investigate this yourself. You were doing your job, Josh said. My job is to find the truth, Harding replied. I got so focused on eliminating you as a suspect that I stopped looking for other answers. That was my mistake.

 You got him in the end. That’s what matters. I got him because you recorded his confession, she admitted. I got him because you kept digging when I told you to stop. That shouldn’t have been necessary. I should have believed you from the start. Josh didn’t know what to say to that. Harding stood up. For what it’s worth, you’d make a good detective.

 If you ever get tired of computer science, Josh laughed. I think I’ve had enough detective work for one lifetime. Fair enough. Harding smiled. You’re free to go. We’ll be in touch about the sentencing hearing. Josh left the police station. It was late afternoon. The sun was setting. Winter was here now. Snow was starting to fall.

 Josh walked to the campus bus stop. Students were everywhere. Heading to class. Heading to the library. Heading to dinner. Living their normal college lives. Josh used to have that life. Now he had this one. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Mark’s mother. The plea deal is official. 25 to life. Thank you for everything. Mark can rest now. Josh texted back.

 I’m glad I could help. He put his phone away. He got on the bus. He went back to his new dorm room. It was small and plain and completely ordinary. And that was exactly what Josh wanted. He opened his laptop. He had homework due tomorrow. A computer science assignment he hadn’t even looked at yet. Normal student problems. Josh smiled.

 He opened the assignment. He started working. For the first time in two weeks, Josh felt like himself again. Not the person who found a body. Not the person who solved a 15-year-old murder. Just Josh, a college student trying to pass his classes. That was enough. The sentencing hearing was in December. Josh sat in the gallery with Mark’s parents.

 The courtroom was small and cold. A few reporters were in the back. Kurlin sat at the defense table with Linda Morrison. He looked different, thinner, grayer, like the last month in jail had aged him 10 years. The judge entered. Everyone stood. The judge sat. Everyone sat. The prosecutor went first. She laid out the case methodically.

 The murder, the cover up, the 15 years of deception, the attack on Josh. She read excerpts from the confession Josh had recorded. Kurlin didn’t look up. He just stared at the table. Then it was Morrison’s turn. She argued for leniency. She talked about Kurland’s clean record before this. She talked about the accident, how Mark’s death wasn’t premeditated.

 She talked about panic and bad decisions. The judge listened without expression. Then the judge looked at Josh. Mr. Josh, would you like to make a statement? Josh hadn’t prepared anything. He stood up. His legs felt shaky. I never knew Mark, Josh said.

 I only know what happened to him, but I know his parents spent 15 years thinking their son was a thief who ran away. I know Kurlin let them believe that. I know he rented out that house to students year after year knowing Mark was in that couch. That’s not panic. That’s cruelty. Josh sat down. His heart was pounding. The judge nodded. Then he looked at Mark’s parents. Would either of you like to speak? Mark’s mother stood.

 She walked to the front of the courtroom. She looked at Kurlin. “You took my son from me,” she said, her voice shaking. “Not just his life. You took his memory. You made people think he was a criminal. You made people think he ran away because he was guilty of something. For 15 years, I defended him. I told people he wouldn’t steal.

 I told people something must have happened. And everyone looked at me like I was a delusional mother who couldn’t accept the truth. Her voice broke. You could have called the police. You could have said it was an accident. But you didn’t. You put him in a couch. You turned him into garbage.

 You made me drive past his house for 15 years and never know he was there. She wiped her eyes. I hope you never sleep again. I hope every time you close your eyes, you see his face. She sat down. Her husband held her hand. The judge turned to Kurlin. “Mr. Kurlin, do you have anything to say?” Kurlin stood slowly. He looked at Mark’s parents. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

 “I know that doesn’t mean anything. I know I can’t undo what I did, but I want you to know that I think about Mark every day.” “I have for 15 years,” Mark’s father stood up. “Don’t you dare say his name,” he shouted. The judge banged his gavvel. Order. Mark’s father sat down, but his eyes never left Kurlin. The judge opened a folder. He read from it. Mr.

 Kurlin, you have pleaded guilty to murder in the second degree and attempted murder. You have shown remorse, but your actions after Mark’s death demonstrate a pattern of deception and calculation that cannot be ignored. This court sentences you to 25 years to life in prison. You will be eligible for parole in 25 years.

 Kurlin closed his eyes. Morrison touched his shoulder. The judge banged his gavvel. Court is adjourned. Guards came forward. They put handcuffs on Kurlin. They let him out through a side door. He didn’t look back. Josh watched him go. After everything, the couch, the investigation, the attack, the confession, it was over in less than an hour. That’s how justice worked. quick and procedural and anticlimactic.

 Mark’s parents stood. Josh stood with them. They walked out of the courtroom together. Outside, reporters were waiting. They shouted questions at Josh, at Mark’s parents. Josh kept walking. He didn’t have anything to say. Mark’s mother stopped at their car. She hugged Josh one more time. “You gave us closure,” she said. “That’s a gift we can never repay.

 You don’t have to repay anything, Josh said. I’m just glad I could help. What will you do now? She asked. Go back to school. Try to have a normal life, she smiled. You deserve that. They drove away. Josh stood in the parking lot. Snow was falling harder now. His phone buzzed. It was Ben. How’d it go? Josh texted back. 25 to life.

It’s over. Ben replied. Good pizza tonight. Josh texted. Yeah, pizza sounds good. Josh put his phone away. He started walking back to campus. The courthouse got smaller behind him. Soon it disappeared around a corner. Josh thought about Mark. About the notebook he kept in his desk drawer. About the last entry. October 31st, 2008. Kurlin coming for rent. $2,000.

 4:00 in the evening. Still hasn’t fixed leak. Don’t let him forget. Mark tried to hold someone accountable. That’s what got him killed. But in the end, Mark was right. Someone needed to be held accountable. And 15 years later, finally, someone was. Josh pulled his jacket tighter against the cold. He walked faster.

 He was ready to go home. Spring semester started in January. Josh and Ben got new housing, a regular dorm room in a different building. No off-campus houses, no leases, no landlords. It was a small room, two beds, two desks, a window that looked out over the quad. It was perfect.

 Josh threw himself into his classes, computer science, algorithms, data structures. He studied in the library. He went to office hours. He tried to be a normal student, but people recognized him in the dining hall, in the computer lab, at parties. They’d whisper to each other, “Point.” Some would come up and ask questions.

 “Are you the guy who found the body? Is it true you almost got killed? What was it like finding him in the couch?” Josh learned to give short answers. “Yes. Yes. Terrible.” Then he’d excuse himself. Ben handled it better. He told people the whole story. He turned it into entertainment. So there we are, right? He’d say, cutting into this couch and Josh pulls out a wallet. Josh didn’t mind.

 If Ben wanted to tell the story, fine. It meant Josh didn’t have to. One day in February, Josh was studying in the library when someone sat down across from him. It was a girl from his algorithms class. Sarah, hey, you’re Josh, right? She asked. Yeah, I’m Sarah. We’re in the same algorithm section. I know. Josh said.

 Listen, I know you probably get asked about this a lot, but what you did was really brave. Josh closed his laptop. I just did what anyone would have done. No, she said. Most people would have called the police and let them handle it. You kept investigating when they told you not to. You put yourself at risk. That’s not normal. I guess Josh mumbled.

 I’m writing an article for the student paper, she continued about how cold cases get solved. Would you be willing to talk? Josh hesitated. He’d turned down every interview request from local news, from podcasts, from YouTube channels. He didn’t want to be known as the body in the couch guy for the rest of his life. But Sarah seemed genuine. And maybe if he told the story once properly, people would stop asking.

 Okay, Josh said, “But I have conditions.” What? No photos of me. No identifying information about Ben and nothing that exploits Mark’s memory. This isn’t about me. It’s about making sure people remember Mark as a victim, not as the thief he was falsely accused of being. Sarah nodded. Deal. They met the next day at a coffee shop off campus. Sarah recorded the interview on her phone. Josh told her everything.

 The couch, the discovery, the investigation, the attack, the trial. She asked good questions. She didn’t sensationalize. She focused on the systemic failures. How the police dismissed Mark as a thief without investigating. How Kurlin exploited the transient nature of student housing to hide his crime. How Josh only succeeded because he refused to accept the official narrative.

 The article ran the following week. It was titled, “When the system fails, how one student refused to let a cold case stay cold.” Josh read it in his dorm room. It was good, fair. It focused on Mark and his parents, not on Josh. It asked important questions about how police handle missing person’s cases.

 It highlighted the failures that let Kurlin get away with murder for 15 years. Ben read it over Josh’s shoulder. “This is really good,” Ben said. “She did a good job.” “Yeah, she did.” “How do you feel?” Ben asked. “I don’t know,” Josh said. “Weird. Like that part of my life is over, but people won’t let it be over. It’ll die down eventually,” Ben said. “Something else will happen.

People will forget.” Josh wasn’t so sure. But he hoped Ben was right. A few days later, Josh got an email. It was from a law school professor. Dear Josh, I read the article about your role in solving Mark’s case. I’m a professor at law school name and I teach a seminar on wrongful convictions and systemic failures in the criminal justice system.

 I’d like to invite you to speak to my class about your experience. I think my students would benefit from hearing how ordinary citizens can hold the system accountable when it fails. Josh stared at the email. A law school wanted him to speak about holding the system accountable.

 He thought about Mark, about the notebook, about the 15 years Mark’s parents spent not knowing what happened to their son. Josh wrote back, “I’d be honored. Maybe this wasn’t about putting the past behind him. Maybe this was about making sure what happened to Mark never happened to anyone else. Maybe that was worth being the body in the couch guy for a while longer.” Josh closed his laptop.

 He had homework to do, algorithms, data structures, normal student stuff, but now he had something else, too. Purpose, and that felt good. The law school talk was in March. Josh took the train to the city. The law school was impressive. Old buildings, Gothic architecture, students in suits carrying briefcases.

 Josh felt out of place in his jeans and hoodie. The professor met him at the entrance. Professor Diane Chen. She was in her 50s, sharpeyed, confident. Josh, thank you so much for coming, she said. My students are very excited to meet you. I’m not sure what I can tell them that they don’t already know, Josh said. You’d be surprised, she replied. Most of my students have spent their entire lives in classrooms.

 They’ve studied theory. They’ve read case law, but they’ve never met someone who actually lived through a systemic failure and did something about it. She led Josh to a classroom. 30 students sat in teiered seating. They all turned when Josh entered. Professor Chen introduced him. This is Josh, she announced.

 Last semester, he discovered a 15-year-old murder victim. And when the police initially dismissed his concerns, he conducted his own investigation that ultimately led to the killer’s conviction. Josh, the floor is yours. Josh stood at the front of the room. 30 law students stared at him expectantly. He told the story, the couch, the discovery, the police skepticism, the investigation, the confrontation, the conviction. When he finished, hands shot up. A student in the front row went first.

 Why didn’t you hire a lawyer? If the police thought you were involved, wouldn’t legal representation have been the smart move? I couldn’t afford a lawyer, Josh answered. I’m a college student working part-time at the library. I was barely making rent, another student asked. But you could have gotten a public defender.

 Public defenders are for people who’ve been charged with crimes, Josh explained. I wasn’t charged. I was just a person of interest. There’s no free legal help for that. Professor Chen nodded. That’s an important distinction. Josh, can you talk about why you felt compelled to investigate on your own despite the risks? Josh thought about it. Because nobody else was going to.

 The police had their narrative. Mark was a thief who ran away. They closed the case 15 years ago. When I found him, their first instinct wasn’t to investigate who killed him. It was to figure out if I was involved. If I hadn’t kept pushing, Kurlin would still be out there. A student in the back raised her hand. But you almost got killed.

 Was it worth it? Mark’s parents spent 15 years thinking their son was a criminal, Josh said. Was it worth it to give them the truth? Yeah, I think so. The questions continued for an hour about evidence, about police procedure, about the legal system, about the ethics of conducting your own investigation. Josh answered as best he could. He wasn’t a lawyer. He wasn’t an expert. He was just someone who did what needed to be done.

 When the class ended, students came up to thank him, to shake his hand, to tell him they wanted to work on wrongful conviction cases, to tell him his story inspired them. Josh felt uncomfortable with the praise. He didn’t do anything special. He just cared when nobody else did. Professor Chin walked Josh out. Thank you again, she said.

 That was exactly what my students needed to hear. I’m not sure I told them anything useful, Josh said. You told them that the system doesn’t always work, she replied. That sometimes justice requires ordinary people to step up. That’s the most important lesson they’ll learn in law school. She handed Josh an envelope. This is an honorarium for your time. Josh looked inside. $500.

 I can’t take this. Yes, you can, she insisted. You took time out of your schedule. You shared a traumatic experience. That’s worth compensation. Josh put the envelope in his pocket. Thank you. He took the train back to campus. On the way, he thought about the law students. They were smart, motivated. They wanted to help people.

 Maybe some of them would. Maybe some of them would become public defenders or work for innocence projects or fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. Maybe Mark’s story would do some good. When Josh got back to campus, it was evening. He went to the dining hall. Ben was there with some friends. Hey, how’d it go? Ben asked. Good. Josh said.

 The students asked a lot of questions. They pay you? Yeah. 500? Ben whistled. Not bad. Dinner’s on you. Josh laughed. Sure, dinner’s on me. They ate pizza and talked about classes and upcoming exams. Normal college stuff. For the first time since finding Mark, Josh felt like his life was his own again. The investigation was over.

 The trial was over. Kurlin was in prison. Mark’s name was cleared. Justice was served. And Josh could finally move on. But he’d never forget Mark or the notebook or the last entry. October 31st. Kurlin coming for rent. $2,000. 4:00 in the evening. Still hasn’t fixed leak. Don’t let him forget. Josh didn’t forget. And because he didn’t forget, Mark got justice.

 That was enough.