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Moscow, Idaho

A t around seven p.m., the Sigma Chi fraternity house gets a visit from Blaine Eckles, the dean of students.

Sixty-one young men gather in the lodge, their ashen faces tearstained. If ever they needed to feel the comfort of leadership, it’s now.

Dean Eckles rises to the occasion. He has no children of his own, and these young men right here—they are his family.

First things first, the dean tells them. He’s aware they are the only Greek house on campus that doesn’t have a chef, and he knows today most of them will not have thought about buying groceries, so he’s got them covered—food, water, milk, are on the way.

Second, he’s opened the counseling center 24/7 so its team is available for anyone who needs it.

Third, the Idaho State Police is going to provide round-the-clock security for the house.

And fourth, everyone can just get the hell out of town.

No need to email professors. No need to turn in assignments. “Go,” he tells them. “Be with the people you love.”

Fifth, he’s going to let the fraternity president, Reed Ofsthun, deal with the press however he wants. He advises the group to stay off social media, chiefly to be sensitive to the victims’ families.

The release of tension is palpable.

Some of the fraternity members cry openly. These are tough young athletes, but they have never experienced anything like this.

Ethan’s frat brothers feel his loss. But they also feel like participants in whatever terrible trauma he suffered.

The back of the frat house has a view of 1122 King Road.

So, after waking to what most had assumed would be a lazy Sunday and learning the news, one by one the whole chapter had gathered there, staring grimly across the Lower 40 at the mass of police cars and emergency vehicles, listening to the wailing sirens, fearing the worst as their phones blew up with surreal texts about their frat brother Ethan and about Xana, whom they loved like a sister.

Only last night they’d all been joshing together at the postgame party.

And now? Their worlds were upended.

Most of them watched Hunter Chapin leave the house that morning with Cooper Atkinson. They watched Jayden Shepherd receive a call, after which he turned to them and said, simply, “Ethan’s dead.”

They received texts about a gruesome killing, blood everywhere.

They watched as, hours later, against the backdrop of a swarm of police officers, the forlorn figures of Hunter Chapin and Hunter Johnson walked back to the fraternity house, packed up some stuff, and headed to the police station.

The fraternity brothers had hugged Hunter Chapin. Told him they loved him. They weren’t sure he could even hear, he was so grief-stricken.

Once Dean Eckles leaves, they head to their rooms. Many of them phone their parents and ask them to come get them right now. Others start to load up their cars.

None of them knows what exactly happened to Ethan, their brother.

One of them, David Berriochoa, walked across the Lower 40 at 3:59 a.m. and felt a strange chill as he did so.

It’s a chill they all feel now.

Their instinct tells them to run. Get the hell out of Moscow, get as far away as possible.

Run. Run.