The Sorority Murder (Regan Merritt, #1)(21)

Tripp added, “I went to see JT a few weeks ago.”

He didn’t have to say anything else. She had told her brother everything that had happened in Virginia and why she came home. She had expected his complete confidence, but she should have known better. JT and Tripp had been inseparable growing up; she shouldn’t be surprised they still shared everything now.

“Well.” She cleared her throat. She had nothing to say about it.

Tripp said, “Don’t blame JT. I asked.”

“So you’re home trying to piece together the remnants of your life, too?”

She sounded angry; maybe she was. She didn’t want to think about Chase, but he was all she had been thinking about since her dad’s comment last night. The pain was still too raw, too fresh, even though he had been killed eight months ago. She feared it would never go away, that she’d live with this constant pressure on her chest, the never-ending grief of losing the most important person in her life.

“Hell, I can’t even find the pieces to stitch back together,” he said, his tone far lighter than his words. “One day at a time.”

She nodded because she understood exactly what he meant. “You staying in town?”

“I’m thinking about taking the GI Bill and going to college. NAU.”

She laughed; she couldn’t help it. Tripp had barely survived high school, and she couldn’t see him in college.

“I know, I know. I don’t expect to finish. I just have no fucking idea what to do anymore and thought taking a couple practical classes might help put something together.”

“Where are you staying?” Tripp’s parents had separated after he enlisted. His dad had remarried and moved to Texas; his mom remarried and moved to Phoenix.

“My grandma is letting me stay in her guest house.”

“I didn’t know she had a guest house.”

“Most people call it a shed, but it has a bathroom. I don’t want to put her out, and I’m not really good company these days. I’m getting there. Thanks to your brother.” He playfully hit her arm. “It’s really good to see you, Regan.”

“You, too, Tripp. Don’t be a stranger.”



Eight


Regan spent the afternoon at the NAU library reading everything she could find about Candace Swain’s murder investigation. There wasn’t much. In fact, Lucas had covered all of the key public facts on the first two episodes of his show. There was no mention that Candace had not drowned in the lake, no real forensic details outside of the basics. The police had clearly indicated to the media—because they reported heavily about Joseph Abernathy—that he was a person of interest, i.e. a suspect.

A reporter had written an investigative article about individuals who ride the rails. Not only transients took the free, but often dangerous, jump onto freight cars. Young people were increasingly participating in these endeavors, and he’d interviewed two college dropouts who spoke on the condition of anonymity. “Jan” and “Tom” estimated they had ridden more than ten thousand miles on the tracks over the last two years.

“We were able to see most of the country, places most people don’t even know about,” Jan said. “We’re taking a break but are meeting up with friends later this summer.”

Jan and Tom both know Joseph Abernathy. They once shared a railcar with him from Flagstaff to Albuquerque a year ago.

“Joseph was quiet, kept to himself. He drank heavily, and when he was sober he had a hard time remembering things. He told a lot of stories, but you didn’t know if they were true or not. But he was harmless. He would yell at people sometimes, and you didn’t really know why, but he never hurt anyone.”

Serious alcoholics didn’t always know what they did when they were intoxicated. It was certainly possible to kill and not remember.

There were too many questions, and nothing in any of the official statements gave her anything more to go on. The police felt that Abernathy was their best and most viable suspect, and as her dad had indicated, they could have evidence they kept to themselves.

At quarter to seven, she headed over to the communications building where the recording studios were located. While dorms always required a card key to enter, most buildings were open during class hours, and there were many evening courses around campus. After hours, only a card key could get you in. Fortunately, the communications building was open. Lucas had texted her that he was in room 303, down the hall from the studio.

He had his door open. “You ranked your own office?” she said as she walked in. It was small—barely fit a desk and a chair, with a second chair squeezed in—but it had a door that locked.

“They had the space, and I made a pitch as part of my capstone. There was no room in the criminology building, and this is right down the hall from the studio.”

She sat down across from him. He was working on his laptop. There were binders on a shelf next to the desk, and a few crime-related books, plus one on forensics. But there was no clutter; he clearly didn’t spend a lot of time in here.

Lucas said, “I really appreciate you doing this with me. I think it’ll help.”

“Exactly what do you want from me? Yesterday you mentioned interviewing techniques, discussing how the Marshals Service looks for missing people, things like that.”