Page 22 of Killer Knows Best

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

Nikki beats Jack and me to the off-campus apartment by a hair.

The apartment complex looms ahead like a bad decision someone made in the ’70s and never bothered to remedy. It’s a squatty-looking, beige building with the charm of a used tire, sitting a few miles off-campus, far enough from Winston Grand to screamlow rent. It’s the type of establishment where you don’t leave your bike unlocked unless you’re looking to offload it.

Buddy gives a little whine as I look to hand him off to the deputy outside. Neither Buddy nor the deputy looks too thrilled about being sidelined, but someone’s got to keep the locals from sneaking a peek.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on him?” I ask the younger deputy on hand, and Buddy offers a half-hearted wag of his tail as if he’s trying to charm his way into the man’s good graces.

The deputy is more than happy to take on the challenge as Jack, Nikki, and I make our way into the building. If I were to personify the place, I’d say it was a seventy-year-old woman with her hair in rollers and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth,desperately in need of a nap and booze—not necessarily in that order.

Nikki steps in ahead of me, her boots scuffing against the cracked concrete. Jack holds the door, motioning me inside with that typical mock chivalry of his. Okay, so maybe it’s genuine. I’ll admit, I’m not used to his kind behavior toward me. But I want to be. I’ll take time and work on my part. My walls don’t come down willingly.

“There goes Stone,” Nikki says, gliding past him. “Always trying to score points.”

“If anyone’s keeping score, I’m winning,” he says with a flash of a grin.

A dull laugh rumbles in my chest. “You’re about to win an all-access pass to?—”

“Say my pants,” Nikki calls out as she heads down the hall ahead of us.

“Nice to know I’m surrounded by mature adults.” I flex a short-lived smile at Jack. “I was going to say a predecessor to a crime scene.”

“I like Nikki’s version better,” he grunts as we head to the door on the left with a deputy stationed outside of it. Hale arranged for the sheriff’s department to provide a few buffers between us and the rest of the student body who might try to storm the scene.

We step into a rather small and cloistered apartment with dull lighting, dingy walls, not a lot of anything in it.

The place smells as if it’s been sealed off from fresh air for too long. Stale with a hint of something I can’t quite put my finger on. Desperation, maybe. There’s something sad about it in general, and that’s a scent you can’t scrub out no matter how much perfume you throw at it.

The living room is about as lived-in as it gets. There’s a gray threadbare sofa with one armrest sloping as if someone hasbeen using it as a pillow for the past three years. The sofa sits angled toward a TV that looks like it’s trying to survive freshman year itself.

There’s a pile of mismatched blankets on the floor, a half-full glass of water on the coffee table, and a couple of mugs with lipstick stains drying in rings. It’s a one-bedroom, one-bath, and I poke my head into the bedroom for a moment.

The room is spliced in half as far as décor goes. Two twin mattresses are butted against opposing walls, and there’s a giant gold D over one and a matching G over the other.

Delaney’s side is neat, girly, and frilly as can be. Pink pillows, a floral throw, and some candles that smell like vanilla are set on a beat-up dresser that looks as if they pulled it out of a dumpster.

Gwen’s side is the total opposite. Navy sheets and a matching comforter are all rolled into a jumble, pillows on the floor, the mattress peeking out from one corner. The bed looks like it hasn’t been made in weeks.

I head back to the living room and spot Jack making a beeline to the kitchen. And because Jack is often led by his stomach, he opens the fridge.

“It’s like you’ve never been in a crime scene before,” I say, following him.

“What? Sometimes the fridge says a lot about a person. And technically, this isn’t a crime scene. As you so aptly worded it earlier, it’s a predecessor to a crime scene.”

“Which is just as important,” Nikki points out, rifling through the sofa cushions.

Jack swings wide the door to the tiny white fridge with a swath of rust near the bottom before squinting into the cold light.

I peer over his shoulder. There’s hardly anything inside—just a couple bottles of water, some sad-looking yogurt cups, anda clear takeout container of what used to be salad, now reduced to swamp water at the bottom. He pokes at it with a grimace.

“I think it’s evolving,” he mutters.

“Right into the trash can,” I say, giving him a playful nudge. “You looking for clues or lunch?”

“Both,” he says, shutting the fridge door with a sigh. “But now I am definitely not hungry.”

Nikki wanders in and begins to open up the cabinets. “I have to say, their snack game isn’t half bad. Pretzels, Oreos, something called Moon Cheese. And they’ve got three full jars of peanut butter. Classic college staples.”

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