As she approached the door, she heard a television, low, indistinct. Then came the sound of a baby crying from the house to the east. From the house behind Taylor’s, a place she could barely see through the trees, a power tool squealed.

There was no doorbell. Regan rapped on the door frame. The two windows facing the street had closed blinds.

She heard footsteps. A woman swore, as if she’d kicked something. Regan was dressed comfortably: jeans, black T-shirt, her favorite boots. She’d left her wavy, shoulder-length hair down, figuring it would soften her look. She didn’t want to look like a cop, but after her long career it was a hard image to break.

“Coming, coming!” a voice called from inside.

Taylor James opened the front door, looking nothing like the vibrant woman in her Sigma Rho picture. Through the screen, she appeared ghostly—hollow features, sunken eyes, underweight. Her hair had highlights that had mostly grown out. Stale cigarette smoke filled Regan’s nose.

“You know, I work nights, so this is early for me.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. James. My name is Regan Merritt, and I’m investigating the disappearance and murder of Candace Swain some years ago. It’s my understanding that you were one of the last people to see her before she disappeared.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No, ma’am. I’m just an investigator.” She itched to say private investigator, and she could probably get away with it, but she wasn’t licensed and didn’t want to imply that she was. Her dad had brought up the subject a few months ago—that maybe she should consider private law-enforcement or investigative services. One of his buddies who’d retired early after being shot in the line of duty ran an agency in Scottsdale, mostly former law enforcement. But Regan didn’t know what she wanted to do now that she was no longer a marshal.

Though having that PI license would be a real plus right now.

“The Flagstaff police talked to me back then. I told them everything I knew. I have nothing to add.”

She was about to close the door, but Regan said, “Have you listened to the podcast about Candace’s murder? Three episodes aired over the last week and a half.”

Her face drained. “No,” she said.

Regan wasn’t sure that Taylor was being honest. She pushed, lightly. “But you’ve heard of the podcast.”

“Sigma Rho sent out an email to alumnae. No one wants to be involved with this farce.”

“I’m following up on a caller who said that you and Candace were not actually arguing about Abernathy, the homeless man who was seen at the sorority the night she first disappeared.”

“First disappeared? What does that mean?”