Max packed up, slipped on her coat, which had nearly dried, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and walked outside. The light, steady rain continued. Great. She should have retrieved her umbrella earlier.
She headed straight for Canyon Hall and up to the fourth floor. She listened outside room 412. People were talking inside, though she couldn’t make out specific words. She knocked loudly. A few seconds later, the door opened.
Arthur Cowan was a lot shorter than she’d thought—about her height of five foot ten. He stared at her—first her face, then his eyes dipped down to her breasts, which were covered by her coat, then back to her face. “Hell-o,” he said.
“That’s the reporter,” a voice came from the room. Max couldn’t see Tom Keller, but it sounded like his whine.
“Maxine Revere,” she said, and held out her card.
Art frowned. “We have nothing to say to you.” He started to close the door.
Max put her boot in the opening. “You don’t know my questions.”
“Tom says you’re writing an article about Scott. That you think we lied.”
“Tom,” Max said, pushing open the door and stepping into the dorm room. “That’s not what I said.”
The room was a mess, and she thought about Ian’s comment about not wanting to live with a slob. The main room had two small couches and reeked of stale food and beer. Two open doors led to bedrooms, which were equally messy. There was so much clothing and paper scattered in one room, she couldn’t see the floor.
“Hey,” Art said when she brushed past him. “We didn’t invite you in.”
She said, “What really happened on that camping trip? Don’t you think that Scott’s family deserves the truth?”
“I’m calling campus security,” Art said. But it was Carlos who pulled his phone from his pocket.
She had to talk fast. The papers she signed to get the visitor’s pass included a whole slew of rules, including an admonition not to harass students. Some people might think that questions were a form of harassment, and since she’d already tipped her hand to Stephanie Adair, she didn’t want to be removed from campus now.
“To confirm the time line, based on your statements to the police, you three, with Scott Sheldon, went to a known campground approximately an hour’s drive from here. When you arrived, you decided to hike two miles to another campground, less popular but still on the map. Friday night, even though it was forty degrees and dipped down to subzero temperatures before sunrise, Scott walked off, angry, because of an argument. To quote Art, ‘It was just a stupid disagreement.’”
She looked at the boys in turn. Tom stared at his feet, Carlos stared at Art, and Art stared at her.
She continued. “When Scott didn’t return Saturday morning, you went back to the truck and didn’t find him there. But instead of looking for him, or notifying the rangers’ station, you left. In fact, you didn’t notify anyone that Scott was missing until Sunday.”
“There was a storm,” Tom began. “We—”
“Shut up,” Art said, sneering at Tom. “Don’t talk to her.” He stepped toward Max. “Get out.”
If he thought he was intimidating, he was wrong. Max had gone up against far more intimidating men—and women—than Arthur Cowan.
“The storm didn’t really turn bad until Saturday afternoon. You could have called the rangers’ station, told them Scott was missing. They would have gone up there and looked for him until dark. Yet you waited until Sunday morning to inform campus security.” She eyed the boys carefully: Art, red with anger; Carlos, still focused on Art, concerned; Tom, pale and twitchy. “After that, it’s campus security who’s at fault for not contacting the rangers until late on Sunday.”
“It’s not our fault he left,” Tom said.
“Shut the fuck up, Tom!”
Art took a step toward her. She wasn’t scared of the kid, but he was certainly hot under the collar. “Get out of my room. Now.”
“Your reaction tells me you’re a liar, Arthur. I will prove it.”
He pushed her. She took a step back, raised an eyebrow. “Touch me again, and I will put you down, little man.”
His eyes narrowed and he fisted his hands. Carlos stepped up. “Hey, Art, campus security is on their way.”
“Get out!” Art screamed at her. This time, he kept his hands to himself.
Art was a powder keg. She glanced at Tom before she turned to leave. The kid was pale. She definitely needed to talk to him again, alone.
She opened the door. Art’s eyes filled with hate and fear. A big temper problem. Known as a prankster. Maybe he took out his anger through cruel jokes.
Maybe one of his pranks turned deadly. She mulled that idea over in her head. Something to dig into, and Jess Sanchez was the best resource.
She left the dorm with the intention of hunting down Jess and pushing her about her past relationship with Art and asking her about the types of pranks he played—the ones that went beyond writing on his drunk friends. But as soon as she left the dorm room, she was confronted by two campus security officers.