Lucas scanned Taylor’s house. He could see the front door from the back door. A tiny kitchen, a counter with two bar stools. Though the house wasn’t clean, it wasn’t a total disaster. No dirty dishes in the sink. No dishwasher, but clean dishes were stacked in a rubber rack next to the sink. The counters were cluttered with spices and old mail but had been wiped down. A table by the window facing the back had stacks of paper and books—mostly paperback romances. An ashtray that had a few butts in it sat next to an empty beer bottle.
The living room had a sectional sofa, old but clean. A television was mounted on the wall. More half-filled ashtrays, all the same brand of cigarette, lots of magazines. Lucas’s stomach flipped when he realized she read nursing and other science magazines. Did she read the articles and regret her life choices? Taylor had once had a promising future—what had happened? She was only twenty-five. She could have turned her life around, but it was as if she’d given up.
There was one bedroom off a short hall near the front door. He didn’t want to search her room, but now he was compelled. He’d already entered her house. What was five more minutes?
Her bedroom was cluttered but clean. No ashtrays in here, but the smell was nearly as strong. She’d made an attempt to make her bed—pulled up the comforter over her sheets. A stuffed dog sat on top.
It was unbelievably sad.
The bedroom was a good size, and she had a desk in the corner piled with books and papers. He glanced through them and found a lot of newsletters from NAU stuffed in every nook. On the shelf above the desk were college yearbooks. He had never ordered one but planned to for his senior year.
He flipped through the yearbooks, hoping that something would jump out at him. Like if she’d scratched the eyes out of Candace’s photos. Or written a confession in the margins. Nothing. The books were pristine.
What was he thinking? That she would keep damning evidence here at her house? If there was a suicide note, Regan would have found out, right?
He stared at the desk. It was small, uncluttered—but there were cords going to the wall. Computer cords?
Had the police taken her computer? Why? Because there was evidence on it—or a suicide note—or something else?
Or was it missing? Stolen? Had she hidden it?
On the top of her dresser was a lot of makeup, perfume, photos, scraps of paper. Mostly sticky notes to herself about work, doctors’ appointments, phone numbers with only first names.
In the dim light, Lucas caught his reflection in the mirror attached to the dresser. What the fuck was he doing going through a dead woman’s house? He could lose everything. He could be expelled. He might not be able to get a job in law enforcement.
Then he saw the picture, partly hidden behind a bunch of other photos that were mostly of Taylor in college. He stared at it for a long minute, almost thinking that he had conjured the photo in his imagination.
He reached out and gingerly touched it.
It was real.
He pulled it out. A couple other photos tumbled to the dresser top, but he ignored them. He stared at the familiar faces.
Candace. Taylor.
Adele.
He had been right from the beginning.
He knew that Candace and Taylor had known Adele, even though they’d both denied it to him. There was no denying it now. Here was a photo of the three girls from their first year in college, arms around each other. Proof. Proof that they’d lied to him.
But what could he do with it? Was it proof when both Candace and Taylor were dead? Proof of what?
All three of them were now dead.
His phone vibrated, and he jumped.
He looked at the message. It was Troy.
It’s been 20 minutes—you good?
He pocketed his phone—and the photo—and left the house.
Thirty-One
Regan grabbed a quick lunch, then drove to Lucas’s apartment. Lizzy was on the couch when Lucas let Regan in. Remnants of deli sandwiches sat on the coffee table in front of them. Lucas quickly picked everything up as he said, “Nicole Bergamo reached out to Lizzy. This could be big.”
Regan listened as Lizzy recounted her conversation with Nicole and her offer to disguise her voice.
Based on what Nicole told Lizzy, she didn’t know anything about Candace’s disappearance though had some interesting insight as to the division in the sorority. What was interesting was Vicky Ryan’s anger toward her mentor.
Thirdhand information was harder to work with, but if Nicole called in, Regan had more questions to ask. The fact that she seemed adamant that Abernathy had played no role in Candace’s death made Regan think she knew something else—even if she didn’t fully understand what she might remember. Which was, unfortunately, the biggest problem with accessing three-year-old memories and observations. Time often slanted perception.
“What do you think?” Lucas asked Regan. “Do you think this is important?”
“What’s curious to me is that the sorority is divided. It makes me wonder if there’s something else going on there, maybe someone who knows more than they’re saying.”
“Why?” Lizzy asked. “I mean, you don’t actually buy into Nicole implying that Taylor might have killed her, do you? And like what? They’re covering it up?”
“Actually, it’s a viable theory,” she said. Rachel had also implied the same thing. But it was just conjecture and rumors, something Regan didn’t put much stock in, until she could find evidence.
“I’d been thinking the same thing,” Lucas said. “That maybe Taylor is responsible. But it’ll be impossible to prove.”
“Not necessarily,” Regan said. “If you came to that conclusion, others may, too. We’ll see what happens tonight on the podcast and go from there.” She glanced at her watch. “We should go. Alexa Castillo’s school day ends shortly. She has little digital footprint, so I don’t know how else to find her through public channels.”
Lizzy popped up. “I’ll see you at the studio tonight.”
“Lizzy,” Regan said, “I told Lucas to watch himself, because he’s stirred up a lot of anger over at the sorority. I’m telling you the same thing.”
“He told me about the notes. I’ll be super cautious.”