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.

The living room had a sectional sofa, old but clean. A television was mounted on the wall. More half-filled ashtrays, all the same brand of cigarette, lots of magazines. Lucas’s stomach flipped when he realized she read nursing and other science magazines. Did she read the articles and regret her life choices? Taylor had once had a promising future—what had happened? She was only twenty-five. She could have turned her life around, but it was as if she’d given up.

There was one bedroom off a short hall near the front door. He didn’t want to search her room, but now he was compelled. He’d already entered her house. What was five more minutes?

Her bedroom was cluttered but clean. No ashtrays in here, but the smell was nearly as strong. She’d made an attempt to make her bed—pulled up the comforter over her sheets. A stuffed dog sat on top.

It was unbelievably sad.

The bedroom was a good size, and she had a desk in the corner piled with books and papers. He glanced through them and found a lot of newsletters from NAU stuffed in every nook. On the shelf above the desk were college yearbooks. He had never ordered one but planned to for his senior year.

He flipped through the yearbooks, hoping that something would jump out at him. Like if she’d scratched the eyes out of Candace’s photos. Or written a confession in the margins. Nothing. The books were pristine.

What was he thinking? That she would keep damning evidence here at her house? If there was a suicide note, Regan would have found out, right?