Lizzy skimmed the article. “Party, drinking, yada yada. Oh, here. Rachel Wagner, a third-year student from Scottsdale, was one of the last people to have seen Brittney. ‘We were cleaning the kitchen together, talking and drinking mimosas. Brittney had just broken up with her boyfriend and was looking forward to going home and forgetting about him. I am just so upset that she practically disappeared off the face of the earth.’ Then the reporter goes on about how Doug Harrison was a person of interest in the disappearance because a witness saw him and Brittney arguing the day before her disappearance. Wow. Well, boyfriends are usually the first people cops look at.”
“And maybe he had something to do with it, I don’t know. Another article, which doesn’t mention Rachel, came out in July. Brittney had been missing thirteen months when her body—what was left of it—was found at the bottom of a cliff, near a trail on Mount Lemmon. But cause of death was inconclusive, and nothing has been written about her since.”
“Which is why you want former Sheriff Merritt’s help.”
“Yeah. I guess. It just seems coincidental that someone from Rachel’s sorority disappeared while she was there.”
“But it could be a coincidence.”
He agreed. “The case is still open. At least, I couldn’t find any resolution online. But one interesting thing—Rachel hasn’t been mentioned in any alumni articles. I spent hours going over them. If she was so rah-rah college, why isn’t she still involved?”
He rubbed his eyes. He shouldn’t have had so much caffeine and sugar.
Lizzy kissed him. “Let’s put this all aside, okay? You’ve done everything you can. It’s dreary outside, your roommate is gone for the weekend, let’s binge-watch something and put mean girls and murder and everything on the back burner.”
An hour later, Lucas was grateful that Lizzy had distracted him. His headache had disappeared, and he was laughing for the first time in a long time.
A night off was just what he needed.
Forty-Five
Sunday
Lucas jumped at the sound of the smoke alarm in the middle of the night. It came from downstairs, the shrill beep! beep! beep! that used to drive his dog crazy when he was a kid and the smoke alarm batteries went out.
But this wasn’t dead batteries, this was an actual fire.
Lizzy groaned, and Lucas shook her awake. They’d fallen asleep on the couch. “Hey, it’s a fire alarm. It’s downstairs.”
She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
Lucas heard shouting. It was dark, so it was late—or early. He looked at his phone. Four forty-five.
He ran over to the small front window and looked out. Lizzy came up behind him. “That’s smoke!” she said.
He saw it, too, coming from the apartment right below him, he thought. But it looked odd in the streetlights, and he didn’t see any flames, which should be good, right? An odd smell accompanied the smoke. Something toxic might be burning, though he couldn’t imagine what.
“We have to make sure everyone gets out,” he said.
“I’m calling 9-1-1.” Lizzy already had her phone in hand as she slipped on her shoes.
Lucas left his apartment and started knocking on his neighbors’ doors. Dogs were barking. He glanced over the railing and saw Mrs. Levitz, his landlady, coming from her apartment, two cats in her arms, the other two running in front of her. One of the cats scratched her in his furry panic and jumped from her grasp. She followed the cats across the street.
His neighbor on the left came out to the balcony. “Where’s Troy? He okay?” the guy asked. He, too, was a student.
“He’s out of town.”
Lizzy stepped through the door. “Emergency services said the fire department is already on their way.”
“I need my backpack,” he said. “Go, Lizzy. I’ll be right out.”
“You’d better,” she said.
“That’s my landlady down there, in the pink bathrobe. Go help her. She’s very nice, and her cats are all outside.”
“One minute, Lucas. I mean it!” Lizzy said and ran down the stairs.
There was no smoke in his apartment, but outside it smelled awful, like sulfur. His eyes burned and watered, making him think this was a reaction to a chemical.
He ran to his bedroom and stuffed his laptop into his backpack, then ripped all his notes off the wall and shoved them inside. He was about to leave when he remembered what Troy valued more than anything—his collection of football trading cards, many of which were signed or rare. He grabbed that out of Troy’s bedroom and ran out the door coughing as the thick smoke increased.