At quarter to eleven, Lucas closed down his laptop, slung his case over his shoulder, and left the bar. It was even colder than when he’d arrived nearly three hours ago. He wished he’d brought a hat, but even after nearly four years of living here, he hadn’t quite adapted to a cold lifestyle and always forgot a hat and gloves.
Now he really wished he’d driven.
His phone vibrated as he turned the corner and started up the short hill that led to his apartment complex. He pulled it out and saw that Lizzy was calling.
“Hello,” he answered.
“You called and didn’t leave a message.”
“I was going to McCarthy’s and thought you might want to meet me.”
“I totally would have. Next time text me, or leave a message.”
“I figured you had plans.”
“Hardly. You still there?”
“Walking home.”
“It’s freezing.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Did you hear back from Clarkson’s friend? The marshal?”
“Not yet. Crossing fingers and all that.”
“I think she’ll do it. It’s too interesting. I mean, who just disappears for eight days and then shows up freshly dead?”
Lizzy could be blunt, which was one of the things Lucas appreciated about her.
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
“If she doesn’t, who needs her? We had two calls, we’ll get more. They’ll start steamrolling, or whatever that expression is.”
Lucas smiled, told Lizzy he’d see her tomorrow evening, and ended the call.
He heard a car behind him and expected to see lights. When he didn’t see them, his sixth sense kicked in, and he knew something felt…off.
He glanced over his shoulder. A boxy car—a Jeep, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the dark—was slowly driving up the hill behind him, lights off. He hoped they weren’t drunk. Just to be safe, Lucas moved farther to the right, as far from the street as he could get without falling into the ditch. The Jeep continued up the hill and passed him, lights still off but not driving erratically or doing anything that would prompt Lucas to call the police to report a drunk driver.
Sometimes people were just clueless.
He continued up the hill, turned right, then walked up the stairs to his apartment. It was a nice place, eight units, and the owner–manager Mrs. Levitz lived on the first floor with her four cats. He and Troy fixed a few things for her, and she made them cookies at least once a month and left care packages for them. Her cooking was pretty good. Not as good as his mom’s, but better than what he could put together for himself.
Troy and Denise were on the couch watching a movie when he walked in. “Hey,” he said before going into his bedroom, not wanting to disturb them.
He sat down and checked the podcast email. A dozen messages basically calling him a jerk.
And then there was one that didn’t.
The subject line was can i trust you.
It had been sent through an anonymous address, maybe an email created just to communicate with him, a bunch of numbers and random letters at a Gmail account.
He opened it.
i listened to your podcasts. i almost called in, but i’m in sigma rho, and they would recognize my voice. i saw candace driving like a bat out of hell into mountain view parking. it was around ten at night, two days after the party, sunday night, and she almost hit me. i don’t know if that helps you, but i’d get in trouble if i called. call me a concerned sister.
p.s. i’m sure you’ve figured out that the sorority put a total lid on talking to you. they say they want to protect candace’s image, but it’s really more the sorority’s image they care about. but some of us listen to you, hang on every word, because we want to know what happened to candace as much as you do.
maybe even more.
Seven
Tuesday
Regan met her best friend, Jessie Nez, for breakfast Tuesday morning at Marcy’s Grill, a diner that had outlived the original owner by twenty years. Marcy’s granddaughter Susan ran the place now, and very little had changed—which suited Regan and everyone else who ate there regularly. She and Jessie had breakfast together at least once a week since Regan came back. Jessie ate here every morning because she hated to cook.
“You look like shit,” Jessie said as she sat down, adjusting her heavy utility belt and putting her radio down on the red-checked plastic tabletop.
“No tact, but to the point, I give you that,” said Regan. She had arrived early and was already on her third cup of black coffee.