Page 27 of The Wolves Come at Night
Fourteen
Nashville
The Vanderbilt University campus was as familiar to Taylor as if she’d attended the school herself. Though Taylor was a University of Tennessee grad (Go, Vols!), she’d been living with Vandy in her life since she was a child. Not to mention the number of crimes she’d investigated in this area over the years.
As she strode across the quad, her uniform drew attention, and a line of students was soon trailing her. Mentally pushing away Pied Piper jokes, she finally stopped and turned to face them.
“Do any of you know Carson Conway?”
Nothing.
“Then I ask that you let me do my job in peace. I have nothing to share at this time. If you do, please come forward now. The sooner we can find Carson, the sooner you can go back to your normal lives.”
An extremely willowy blonde who looked about sixteen—damn, the students seemed to be getting younger and younger—raised her hand as if Taylor were teaching an open-air class.
“Ma’am?”
“Captain,” someone hissed behind the girl.
“Captain,” the girl amended. “I’m in Carson’s American Lit class. They’re saying she was killed out by Radnor Lake. Is that true?”
“Who is they?”
“Just some kids online.” The girl looked down. “I didn’t know whether to believe them. They also said she had a gun in her room, and there was a note that she was planning to take out the campus. Like she’s going to be some sort of active shooter. That you found all that stuff but didn’t want to tell us because you didn’t want us to be scared.”
Lord, save me from the rumormongers. “Let me put your mind at ease. None of that is true. We’ve found nothing like that. And we don’t have any indication that Carson has been murdered. Right now, all we know is she didn’t come home last night, and we’re going to be searching for her. You can help by signing up to be a part of the search—if we get to that point—and if you have any credible information to share, please do. Don’t listen to rumors. And don’t spread them,” she finished, glowering at the tall girl, who blushed and nodded.
“Anything else?” Taylor asked.
“Are we safe?”
Oh, child. You do not want me answering that. She understood the place the question came from and answered with the simplest platitude she could.
“Listen to me. You are not in danger. We don’t know that Carson is either, we’re just starting to look at why she might not be answering her phone. Please don’t worry, okay?”
There was a chorus of assent. The world-wise little cynics clearly didn’t believe her, but obediently melted away. Taylor set off again toward the dorm where she was going to meet Carson’s roommate. A Vandy cop had been stationed by the Crawford House entrance and straightened at her approach. God, she missed the days when she wore jeans and boots, and sometimes even needed to whip out her badge to prove who she was—the uniform itched and the bars on her collar scratched her chin and caught in her hair when she turned her head too quickly, not to mention she was about as subtle as a heart attack in it. A six-foot wall of blonde, blue, and gold.
“Captain Jackson.”
“Hi there. I’m supposed to have a chat with Carson Conway’s roommate.”
“Yes, ma’am. Detective Wade is already upstairs. Need me to show you the way?”
“I can find it, thanks. Have you heard anything?”
His eyes darted around, making sure no students were around. “No. Everyone here is pretty freaked out, though. My leadership is talking about a curfew.”
“I don’t know that we’re quite to that point yet. We don’t even know for sure that she’s really missing, not just holed up somewhere.”
The officer nodded sagely. “Right. Chances are she’s just off somewhere with a friend.”
“That’s the hope. Hold the fort.”
She took the stairs two at a time and found the room easily. The door was open to the quad—two bedrooms that shared a bathroom—and the room Carson shared with her roommate was nice enough, for a dorm. One side was covered in colorful posters and hangings, the bed piled high with layers of knitted afghans, the other more subdued, only a single framed piece of art—an oil of a boat sailing away from a rocky shore—over a blue-and-white interlocking key-patterned comforter. Both beds were lofted with desks underneath, leaving enough room for a small sofa under the window. The roommate was perched on it, eyes swollen from crying, hair tucked into a batik-printed kerchief.
Taylor knocked on the door. “May I come in?”
The girl nodded and waved Taylor in. “I’m Izz Heathcote,” she said, holding out her hand.
