“Maybe, but I think he would have been open to negotiation.”
At the beginning of the spring semester, Lucas had spoken to their sorority council—Vicky was president, Nicole was secretary—and told them he was doing his capstone project on Candace Swain’s murder. They asked questions. He wouldn’t answer. He said that he was still formulating his outline and wanted to interview Vicky as president, Rachel Wagner the sorority advisor, and former president Taylor James, who had been arguing with Candace the night she disappeared. But he wouldn’t share his questions in advance. All he said was that he had known Candace because she had tutored him in English, and he wanted to use the podcast as a way to encourage listeners to share what they knew about her last days, in the hopes of solving her murder.
“The police have her murder in the inactive file,” Vicky told Nicole. “It’s not closed, but they have a suspect.”
The police suspected Joseph Abernathy at the time, the creepy drunk guy who Candace was far too nice to. Vicky was positive he killed her. Who else could it be? He was belligerent and had come around campus all the time even after he’d been removed by the police. And he disappeared the day Candace’s body was found. He killed her and skipped town. It made sense, and usually the most obvious answer was the right answer. If the police thought he did it, then they must have good reason to believe he was guilty.
Their advisor had questions for Lucas, the board had questions, and Lucas said he wasn’t prepared to go into detail. They voted unanimously not to be interviewed, and that was it.
But the whole thing left a foul taste in her mouth. She had an image to protect—her image and her future career, her sisters, and the sorority as a whole. Some of her sisters had disagreed with the board, thought they should have participated, and Nicole started listening to them. The division was upsetting, because before this they had been unified.
Lucas Vega’s podcast had become a major thorn in her side, and Vicky couldn’t wait until he was done with it.
Three
Monday
Being back at Northern Arizona University to present a guest lecture was odd enough, but walking into Henry Clarkson’s office was even more unsettling. Regan Merritt had only been in the office of the Criminology and Criminal Justice Department chair a half dozen times. It would have been a large office if there weren’t so many towering shelves, overflowing with books and papers. The antique desk was twice the size of a normal desk, with a glass top to protect the old wood. The last time she’d been here was when she asked Henry for a recommendation letter for the US Marshal’s office, fourteen years ago. Not much had changed—except it seemed he had more books.
The trim, sixty-two-year-old professor, dwarfed by his stately leather chair, poured himself a Scotch, neat, then gestured toward her with an empty glass. “I imagine you enjoy Macallan from time to time, just like your father. It’s nearly five o’clock.”
“You’re a bad influence, Henry,” Regan said but took the offered drink, nonetheless. He poured her two fingers—more than enough—and she held it as she sat in his guest chair. She angled the chair so she could see the door, an instinct she doubted she’d lose after nearly fourteen years as a US Marshal.
“It may be against the rules to have alcohol in my office, but no one has turned me in yet.” He slid over a coaster—a tile with the emblem of Coconino County that looked like it had been bought from a souvenir shop off Route 66. “I would very much like you to teach a seminar here.”
“I don’t want to teach,” she said.
“You have a commanding presence. Very few students were on their phones today.”
“The lecture was optional. They wanted to be there.”
She’d guest lectured on careers in law enforcement, with an emphasis on the US Marshals Service. Though she’d walked away from her job last fall, she still thought it was one of the best law-enforcement jobs to have—and one of the hardest to get into.
When one of the students had asked why she’d left, she didn’t respond. It was no one’s business. Henry didn’t know the entire story, either, and she doubted her father would have shared the details, even though her former professor and father had become friends.
“You’re knowledgeable, articulate, young. I’m not asking you to be a full-time professor—”
She laughed; she couldn’t help herself. The idea of spending hours every week in a classroom was akin to torture. She was smart yet detested school. Not because she was incapable or bullied or opposed to learning but because she greatly preferred being outdoors than being trapped in a room.
“I’m well aware of your kinetic personality, Marshal.”
“I’m not a marshal anymore, Henry.”
“Your father is no longer the sheriff, but most people address him as such.”
With Henry, sometimes there was no winning.
“I’m happy to speak, on occasion—once a semester, maybe—guest lecture like I did today. But I’m not generally interested in shaping young minds or grading papers. But thank you anyway.”
“I’m going to ask again.”
She smiled, sipped her drink. “Of course you are. The answer will still be no.”
Regan saw movement in the hallway outside the door. Classes were on the first floor, staff offices on the second. Because of his position in the CCJ department, Henry was afforded the largest, quietest office at the end of the hall. He never closed his door.
A student stood in the doorway about to knock when he saw Regan. He was skinny, about five foot nine—same height as Regan—with dark hair that curled at his collar. Dark eyes, naturally tan skin, dressed in an NAU Lumberjack sweatshirt and jeans, like half the students on campus. His most distinguishing feature was his bright green Converse high-tops. And because of the Day-Glo shoes, Regan recognized that he’d been at her lecture that afternoon.
“Lucas! Come in.” Henry spoke before the kid said anything.