Even though he was.
“No problem.” Troy leaned back in the passenger’s seat.
Lucas had to do this because he couldn’t shake the idea that something he’d said had pushed Taylor to kill herself. In the back of his mind, he’d thought Taylor was involved in Candace’s murder. They were first friends, then enemies. His research, everyone he talked to, all the anonymous notes supported the idea that they had a major falling-out.
But just because you didn’t like someone didn’t mean you wanted to kill them.
Trying not to look suspicious, Lucas walked purposefully to the front door, knocked. No answer—he didn’t expect one. Taylor had lived alone.
He jiggled the knob. Locked.
The blinds were closed in the front. The carport was in the back of the house. No fences to stop him from walking around to the rear door.
Aggressive weeds pushing through the cracked concrete on the back patio. A weathered picnic table, splintered to the point that no one would want to touch it, sat on one side; a couple chairs and a sagging plastic lounge were on the other side. Multiple coffee cans were half-filled with dirt and sand, in which hundreds of cigarette butts were stuffed. It looked even worse in daytime than it had the other night.
He saw the trash left by the paramedics: a couple gauze wrappers, latex gloves, all tossed in a garbage can that was outside the back door.
Taylor had died here. Right here, outside, alone, and Lucas hadn’t been able to save her.
He stared at the lounge chair where he’d found her, almost saw her again, her bare arm hanging over the edge, her eyes half-open.
Maybe she didn’t die alone.
Where had that thought come from?
Suicide made sense. Sure, the timing was suspicious, but it would be confirmed at the autopsy. Unless it was inconclusive. Or they suspected accidental drug overdose so that’s what they would see. None of this sat right with him. He hadn’t wanted her to die. He’d only wanted answers.
Answers he’d known Taylor had.
He tried the back door.
It was unlocked.
He didn’t hesitate. He went inside, hoping no one saw him.
The house was dark because of the closed blinds. It reeked of cigarette smoke.
He pulled on the latex gloves that Regan had left at his house after she handled the letter he received. He meant to throw them out, but when he saw them this morning he reconsidered, thinking they very well might come in handy.
He went back to the rear door and wiped the knob. Just in case. He wasn’t planning on taking anything—he just wanted to see if there was any connection he could find to Candace’s murder.
Even though Taylor had died outside, he assumed the police had gone through the house when her body was found. To make sure nothing was turned on, like the stove, no potential dangers, no visible drugs, no other victims.
Why was she outside in the middle of the night when it was so cold?
The police would follow up at her work, with her neighbors, just for the report, even if they thought she overdosed. Verify she had been at work, see if they could trace where she’d gotten the drugs, find out if anyone had been with her. Try to figure out her state of mind to help determine if this was an accident or suicide. And if someone had been with her, left her to die? That might be considered manslaughter.
Regan could find those answers faster, and Lucas would ask if she’d followed up with the detective. Lucas hadn’t been called, which surprised him. Did they not care? Or was a drug death not a priority? Right now he was wondering why—when it had been forty degrees that night—she hadn’t been inside her house when shooting up.
He’d never done drugs, so he didn’t understand Taylor’s thinking. They screwed you up. One of his best friends growing up had gotten into drugs in high school, ended up dropping out and getting arrested when he was seventeen, and again when he was eighteen. The third time landed him in prison for five years. Lucas believed in second chances, but he always wondered if maybe Greg had gotten help the first time he was arrested, he might not have found himself in the same cycle of stealing to feed a worsening drug habit.
The cigarette smell was overwhelming. He’d need a shower when he got home.
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.