It was nine when she arrived in the visitors’ parking lot. The campus was small, at least by Max’s standards—three thousand undergraduates, half of whom commuted to the campus, and an even smaller graduate program. A typical liberal arts college, where students predominately majored in the humanities and arts, though there was a new earth science building and a recent influx of students majoring in environmental science and conservation. Not a surprise, considering the campus was in the Rocky Mountains.
The grounds may have been modest, but they spread out and up the mountainside, with tree-lined cement trails winding around the perimeter. A quad, of sorts, was built around a possibly natural waterfall, which filled a small lake. A stream meandered out, and judging from the marks in its banks, it was lower than it had been in the past. Still, the campus seemed like a rather idyllic place. No towering redwoods and pines as in California and much of the Rocky Mountains, but this place still had the fresh clean air and crisp cold Max loved.
She used to go skiing all the time—in far colder weather than this. She still skied when she could, but more and more she spent her hours investigating or planning an investigation. This was the first winter she hadn’t spent time at her cousin’s resort in Vail. Too many cold cases had grabbed her interest, and she’d also been finishing the book about the Wicked Nurse of Miami.
Her work—vocation, really—consumed her, and taking time off to have fun just hadn’t seemed important after the tragedies she immersed herself in. And as her editor, who was probably her closest friend in New York, had told her, Max was a workaholic.
Max had downloaded a campus map, but each path was well marked with signs and arrows directing her. She was looking for Rock Creek dorm, where Scott Sheldon had lived for the two months before his disappearance. His roommate had been Ian Stanhope, an environmental science major from Denver. Scott had been an environmental science major as well—and in fact, Scott and Ian seemed to have lived parallel lives.
Both were strong but not straight-A students; both were at Cheyenne on partial merit scholarships. Both had one younger sibling—Scott, a sister; Ian, a brother—and parents who divorced while the boys were in junior high school. Had they become close friends or bitter enemies? Sometimes, similarities made you hate a person because they highlighted—often unintentionally—your own flaws.
She didn’t have a sense of who they were as people, only who they were on paper. Scott hadn’t been involved with athletics; Ian was on the baseball team for the college, a D-III school. Through social media, it appeared that Ian had many friends, lots of direct and indirect connections to college, his high school, and Denver. Scott’s profile had been taken down, probably by his mother or sister, but his mother told her that he’d been soft-spoken and reserved, with only a few friends growing up.
How few? Had he made friends during his two months at Cheyenne before he disappeared? Was he homesick? Did he like college? Were his grades okay or was he struggling? Was there a girlfriend his mother didn’t know about? Ex-girlfriend? His mother said he didn’t have a history of depression, but a family might miss that, especially if the depressed person tried to keep it from them. Or if the onset was sudden. These were all things she would find out.
She knocked on Ian Stanhope’s door again and considered that he might not be there. Classes, socializing, studying.
A small guy came out of the room next door, backpack over his shoulder. “If you’re looking for Ian, he’s probably at the gym if he doesn’t have class.”
“Can you point me in the right direction?”
“South exit, right, and follow the signs to Cougar Stadium.”
Max followed the directions and less than five minutes later was standing in the lobby of a rather impressive athletics facility for a small college. The gym portion was well equipped with several weight machines, treadmills, and an area for free weights. It was clean and bordered on two sides by windows, which looked out into trees. Half the machines were being used.
She referred to a photo of Ian, then looked around. She spotted him working with free weights. Ian watched her approach, a mixture of apprehension and pleasure in his expression.
“Ian Stanhope?” she asked.
“That’s me.” He grinned and wiped his sweaty face with his shirt. He was a good looking nineteen-year-old with blond hair that fell into his eyes. That he didn’t push it away bothered Max. Could he even see through the mess?
“I’m Maxine Revere.” She handed him her business card. “I need a minute of your time.”
“Why would a reporter want to talk to me?” he said, a half smile still on his face.
“Do you have a class?”
“Not until noon.”
“Great.”
He looked from her to her card. “You’re from New York.”
“Yes.”
He lost his smile and didn’t move. He tossed his head, moving his clump of overgrown hair to the side. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
“I’m looking into Scott Sheldon’s disappearance, from last October. You were his roommate.”
“I wasn’t on the camping trip.”
“I promise, I won’t take too much of your time.”
He mumbled, “I have class.”