Regan wouldn’t be happy if she found out he was here, even with Troy. But he couldn’t help himself and he’d been careful—no one had followed him. It was the middle of the day, overcast, drizzly, no one was around. He could do this.

He’d spent most of the morning going over all the files he’d downloaded about Greek Life. He hadn’t made any further connections between any of the sisters to Candace, and most of the newsletters were filled with fluff.

“Hey, buddy, are you sure you should be doing this?” Troy asked.

“I’m just going to walk around. I can’t really sleep, after finding her. I’m hoping, I don’t know, that I can just let it go.” He wasn’t being completely honest with Troy, and he felt bad about that, but it was true that he couldn’t get dead Taylor out of his head. When he did sleep, his mind replayed trying to save her life, hearing the voice of the 9-1-1 operator telling him what to do, but she still died. Over and over and over.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m just going to walk around the house, ten, fifteen minutes? Just let me know if anyone comes. I don’t want people to think I’m doing anything wrong.”

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.