He nursed his one beer and nibbled on a side order of nachos while working on his paper, then switched over to research Regan Merritt. He knew some things about her from her talk on campus, and Professor Clarkson had privately shared more when Lucas had approached him about inviting her on the podcast. Lucas knew that her son had recently been killed and she quit the Marshals Service. But it wasn’t like he could ask her about it, and he could find very little online.

At quarter to eleven, Lucas closed down his laptop, slung his case over his shoulder, and left the bar. It was even colder than when he’d arrived nearly three hours ago. He wished he’d brought a hat, but even after nearly four years of living here, he hadn’t quite adapted to a cold lifestyle and always forgot a hat and gloves.

Now he really wished he’d driven.

His phone vibrated as he turned the corner and started up the short hill that led to his apartment complex. He pulled it out and saw that Lizzy was calling.

“Hello,” he answered.

“You called and didn’t leave a message.”

“I was going to McCarthy’s and thought you might want to meet me.”

“I totally would have. Next time text me, or leave a message.”

“I figured you had plans.”

“Hardly. You still there?”

“Walking home.”

“It’s freezing.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Did you hear back from Clarkson’s friend? The marshal?”

“Not yet. Crossing fingers and all that.”

“I think she’ll do it. It’s too interesting. I mean, who just disappears for eight days and then shows up freshly dead?”

Lizzy could be blunt, which was one of the things Lucas appreciated about her.

“I hope you’re right,” he said.

“If she doesn’t, who needs her? We had two calls, we’ll get more. They’ll start steamrolling, or whatever that expression is.”

Lucas smiled, told Lizzy he’d see her tomorrow evening, and ended the call.

He heard a car behind him and expected to see lights. When he didn’t see them, his sixth sense kicked in, and he knew something felt...off.

He glanced over his shoulder. A boxy car—a Jeep, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the dark—was slowly driving up the hill behind him, lights off. He hoped they weren’t drunk. Just to be safe, Lucas moved farther to the right, as far from the street as he could get without falling into the ditch. The Jeep continued up the hill and passed him, lights still off but not driving erratically or doing anything that would prompt Lucas to call the police to report a drunk driver.

Sometimes people were just clueless.