into the empty waste basket, realizing that the cops had probably emptied it.
Brenna’s bed had an apple-green comforter, with pink and purple pillows scattered across it. She didn’t seem to have any Greek accessories. She must not have rushed, which wasn’t uncommon among the music students at Belmont. Sororities and fraternities held little appeal for them. They’d rather be in bands.
She stepped onto the ladder to Brenna’s bed to get a closer look. Brenna had an alarm clock that apparently shared the bed with her, along with a phone charger, her contact case, and a few other items. A small lamp was clipped to her headboard.
Parker remembered lofting her own bed like this her first semester. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but she wound up hating it. There was no way to have a table that high to put your stuff on. No one could sit on the bed without climbing up. You couldn’t even slide out of bed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night; you had to climb down the ladder, then back up. Second-semester freshmen rarely repeated the set-up.
She stepped back down and went to Brenna’s desk, opened the top drawer. A bunch of pens, some paper clips, Post-it notes … Gibson had probably taken anything of interest.
Parker closed the drawer quietly as she heard the water cut off. Marta came out of the bathroom, her face washed and hair spiked a little more intentionally. She grabbed her cell phone and a purse made of frayed denim. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go see Chase.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Chase came to the door, his eyes swollen, his nose glassy. His apartment was dark, the shades drawn. “Parker,” he said.
She’d only met him a couple of times and was surprised he remembered her name. She hugged him. “I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”
He seemed to be trying to fight his tears. Stepping back, he invited them into the filthy apartment, typical of a college male. He kicked away the laundry that had spilled out of the basket on the floor, and moved the not-yet-folded towels on the couch to give them room to sit.
At least he did his own laundry. That was something. Her brothers never had when they were in college. They’d always carted their dirty clothes home for their mother to wash.
Marta seemed at home in Chase’s apartment, as if she’d been here many times before. She sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall. “Did you get any sleep last night?” Marta asked him.
He dropped into an easy chair, rubbing at his eyes. “No. Police were here for a couple hours. They searched the house. I think they thought I did it or something. But I would never hurt her. Ever.”
Parker’s gaze drifted around the room, and landed on the hole he’d punched in the wall. He saw her looking at it and showed her his swollen hand. “I punched through the wall last night when I heard. I was sitting here studying and the news was on. I heard it and … I just went nuts.” His eyes were wet as he locked in on Parker. “They wouldn’t tell me much. What happened? Did they shoot from their car or was someone at the window?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You work there.”
“But I wasn’t there when it happened.”
He wouldn’t give up. “The guy who found her. Are you sure he wasn’t the one?”
She thought of the grandfatherly Ron Jasper, who’d probably gone into cardiac arrest at the sight of her body. “I’m sure. I’ve known him for years. He would never do something like that.”
Chase’s cell phone began to ring, and he picked it up and switched off the ringer without checking the caller ID. He set it back on the table. Parker glanced at the readout but couldn’t read the name.
“So the others in the studios. They’re always full. Anybody could have been there.”
“But it wasn’t anyone in the building. The bullets came through the window from outside, and no one came in afterward, or they’d have shown up on the security tape.”
Brenna’s bed had an apple-green comforter, with pink and purple pillows scattered across it. She didn’t seem to have any Greek accessories. She must not have rushed, which wasn’t uncommon among the music students at Belmont. Sororities and fraternities held little appeal for them. They’d rather be in bands.
She stepped onto the ladder to Brenna’s bed to get a closer look. Brenna had an alarm clock that apparently shared the bed with her, along with a phone charger, her contact case, and a few other items. A small lamp was clipped to her headboard.
Parker remembered lofting her own bed like this her first semester. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but she wound up hating it. There was no way to have a table that high to put your stuff on. No one could sit on the bed without climbing up. You couldn’t even slide out of bed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night; you had to climb down the ladder, then back up. Second-semester freshmen rarely repeated the set-up.
She stepped back down and went to Brenna’s desk, opened the top drawer. A bunch of pens, some paper clips, Post-it notes … Gibson had probably taken anything of interest.
Parker closed the drawer quietly as she heard the water cut off. Marta came out of the bathroom, her face washed and hair spiked a little more intentionally. She grabbed her cell phone and a purse made of frayed denim. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go see Chase.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Chase came to the door, his eyes swollen, his nose glassy. His apartment was dark, the shades drawn. “Parker,” he said.
She’d only met him a couple of times and was surprised he remembered her name. She hugged him. “I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”
He seemed to be trying to fight his tears. Stepping back, he invited them into the filthy apartment, typical of a college male. He kicked away the laundry that had spilled out of the basket on the floor, and moved the not-yet-folded towels on the couch to give them room to sit.
At least he did his own laundry. That was something. Her brothers never had when they were in college. They’d always carted their dirty clothes home for their mother to wash.
Marta seemed at home in Chase’s apartment, as if she’d been here many times before. She sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall. “Did you get any sleep last night?” Marta asked him.
He dropped into an easy chair, rubbing at his eyes. “No. Police were here for a couple hours. They searched the house. I think they thought I did it or something. But I would never hurt her. Ever.”
Parker’s gaze drifted around the room, and landed on the hole he’d punched in the wall. He saw her looking at it and showed her his swollen hand. “I punched through the wall last night when I heard. I was sitting here studying and the news was on. I heard it and … I just went nuts.” His eyes were wet as he locked in on Parker. “They wouldn’t tell me much. What happened? Did they shoot from their car or was someone at the window?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You work there.”
“But I wasn’t there when it happened.”
He wouldn’t give up. “The guy who found her. Are you sure he wasn’t the one?”
She thought of the grandfatherly Ron Jasper, who’d probably gone into cardiac arrest at the sight of her body. “I’m sure. I’ve known him for years. He would never do something like that.”
Chase’s cell phone began to ring, and he picked it up and switched off the ringer without checking the caller ID. He set it back on the table. Parker glanced at the readout but couldn’t read the name.
“So the others in the studios. They’re always full. Anybody could have been there.”
“But it wasn’t anyone in the building. The bullets came through the window from outside, and no one came in afterward, or they’d have shown up on the security tape.”
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