The Sorority Murder (Regan Merritt, #1)(16)

“Do you remember what day?”

“No, it was during the week, that’s all I know.”

“Did you tell the police about it?”

“I told Willa, the director. I assume she told the police. They came by a couple of times to talk to her, look for Joseph.”

“Did you know Candace?”

“Not really. I knew who she was. She always said hello and smiled when she served food. She was very nice.”

“And that was the last time you saw Joseph.”

“Yeah. I think something bad happened to him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he always came back. That’s what Willa said. He might leave for a few weeks, a month or two, but he’d come back, like a homing pigeon, she said. But he was sick with the drink, you know. He could have died in the middle of nowhere, and who would know?”

Lucas thanked the caller, talked a bit about the police search for Abernathy, then concluded the episode.

“On Tuesday, I’m going to outline exactly what happened to Candace. We know that she was strangled, but she died by drowning. Her body was found in the Hope Springs Lake in the middle of the public golf course. The security cameras at the entrance weren’t triggered, but there are other ways to get to the lake. Did she die in the lake? Or was she killed elsewhere? I have evidence that suggests the latter.”

The podcast was over, music filtered in, and Regan turned off the app.

“What do you think, Dad?”

John mumbled, “He should have talked to Detective Young.”

“Do you know Young?”

“No.”

John Merritt, as the elected sheriff of Coconino County, had sometimes butted heads with local police departments. Generally, though, he’d had a good working relationship with almost everyone, directly or indirectly, and generally deferred to the local jurisdiction.

“In my experience,” she said, “a police detective isn’t going to give a college student the time of day. Young probably sent him to the media officer or told him to put in a FOIA request.” The Freedom of Information Act gave the public access to most information in criminal investigations, but there were some limits, especially in an open case.

“I guess the kid’s onto something,” her dad said. “I heard the transient theory and assumed that they had evidence to back it up. They still could. If they think Abernathy is involved, they likely have a good reason. He probably rides the rails—it’s surprisingly common. Remember that guy who raped and killed four women about ten, twelve years ago? He was living near the railroad tracks, hopped on one day, and if someone hadn’t seen him jumping cars, he may have disappeared forever. And the Route 66 murders? That hobo killed for money and booze across three states, using the rail system to disappear until he was finally caught.”

“No one says hobo anymore, Dad,” she said.

He waved away her comment. “I don’t like this kid’s amateur tactics, and I’m pretty sure the police know a lot more than they’re saying. One thing about investigations, they are dependent on the questions you ask and who you ask. People lie to cops—sometimes intentionally, sometimes by omission. No doubt they looked seriously at the two boyfriends. If she had two, could she have had a third that she didn’t tell anyone about? And I’m not buying into the swimming-pool theory, not yet. The police have the same forensic reports, and they would have tested the water at the time.”

“What if they didn’t?” she asked.

“Most do the work and put in the time.”

“Sometimes we make assumptions and don’t realize it. Reports can be lost or misread.”

John grunted. “Not going there. Not without evidence that there’s a problem. Maybe you should talk to Young, see what he has to say.”

“Maybe I will. So you don’t think I should do the interview with Lucas?” Regan said.

“I didn’t say that. Like I said, I’m intrigued. He asks some good questions. Maybe he’ll find the answers. And maybe you can help.” Her dad looked at her pointedly. “I know you don’t like unsolved murders any more than I do.”

Her heart twisted into a knot so tight she didn’t know if she could breathe. She didn’t want to respond to him by lashing out, saying something she’d later regret.

Her dad didn’t apologize or backtrack; she knew he meant it. She knew he wanted her to face Chase’s death head-on. It didn’t matter that she knew who killed him: there were still a lot of questions—questions she hadn’t been able to ask because the shooter was dead.

Instead, she picked up her phone from the coffee table, grabbed her jacket from the back of the couch, the flashlight from the shelf by the door, and left the house for a walk.



From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
“Everything in your life is a reflection of a choice you have made. If you want a different result, make a different choice.”
I stumbled on that quote while scrolling through my Instagram feed, and it stuck with me. For weeks, I couldn’t sleep more than a few hours. I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. Because as the quote dug deeper into my soul—if I still even have a soul—I realized that I couldn’t fix my life. I can’t make a different choice. I can’t go back in time and say no. I can’t go back in time and stand up. Fear? So easy to blame fear. Fear for my life? Maybe. Not my physical life, but my future. Because what life would I have if people knew the truth?