A full smile from Lucas was so rare. Used to his ghost smile, dark scowls and intense stares, I was so stunned that my breath faltered. And then I smiled back, and even if he couldn’t quite see my mouth I knew the crinkles around my eyes replicated those around his, the darker blue of my eyes connecting with the his gray-blue. “Maybe I did a hammer-fist strike and bloodied his nose before he could do all that gruesome mummy stuff to me.”

He laughed softly, holding the warm smile in place, and I leaned toward him like a flower to sunlight.

“You are fond of that hammer-fist strike.”

“Maybe not as fond as Erin is of all things groin strike related.”

He laughed again and leaned to kiss my forehead, letting me go swiftly and glancing around. His smile faded, and I thought I’d probably be willing to do almost anything to bring it back. “Text me when you’re done this afternoon?”

I nodded. “I will.”

***

I wasn’t sure what I would find when I googled Lucas’s name Wednesday night. I hoped for an obituary that would give me a starting point, which I found. Like many obits, the one for Rosemary Lucas Maxfield didn’t give a clue to how she died. No “in lieu of flowers please send a donation to” with the name of some awful young-mother-killing illness at the end. I googled her name, expecting nothing—but multiple articles popped up, all dated eight years ago. The titles knocked the breath from me. I chose one and clicked—my heart thumping so hard I could feel the individual beats—while I wished these commentaries were about someone else’s mother. Someone I didn’t know.

TWO DEAD IN MURDER-SUICIDE

Authorities have confirmed the horrific details of a murder-suicide that took place during an apparent home invasion in the early hours of the morning on Tuesday. Police say that Darren W. Smith, a local handyman, broke into the home of Raymond and Rosemary Maxfield through a back window around 4 a.m. Tuesday morning. Dr. Maxfield was away on business. After restraining her son in his room, Smith raped Rosemary Maxfield repeatedly before slashing her throat. Cause of death was massive blood loss from multiple sharp force injuries. Smith then fatally shot himself. Weapons found at the scene included a seven-inch hunting knife and a 9 mm pistol.

Smith was one of a group of contractors working on the Maxfield home earlier this summer. There appears to have been no other connection between Smith and the Maxfields, despite surveillance-type photos of the family found yesterday by investigators at Smith’s home. Police believe that Smith was aware of Dr. Maxfield’s absence from home.

Unable to get in touch with his wife or son by Tuesday evening, Raymond Maxfield requested that family friends Charles and Cindy Heller check on them. At approximately 7 p.m., the couple discovered Rosemary Maxfield in her bedroom, covered in blood, with Smith near her, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. The minor child was taken to County Hospital and treated for dehydration, shock, and minor injuries relating to the restraints, but was otherwise unharmed.

Heller made a short statement earlier this evening, requesting that the press and the community allow Maxfield and his son privacy to process the shocking manner in which they lost their 38-year-old wife and mother. “I was in the army. Special Forces. I’ve seen some atrocious stuff. But this was the worst thing I’ve ever come across, and I’ll always regret taking my wife with me that night,” Heller said. The Hellers and Maxfields have been close friends for sixteen years. “Rose was an adoring wife and mother, a loving and wonderful friend. She’ll be terribly missed.”

***

“Thank you for seeing me outside office hours.” I took a deep breath and sat, hands clenched in my lap. “I need to talk to you about Lucas. There’s something I need to know about him.”

Dr. Heller’s brows drew together. “I’m not sure what I can divulge. If it’s of a personal nature, you should probably ask him.”

I was afraid he’d say this, but I needed to know more before I saw Lucas again. I needed to know if that night had been the catalyst for the scars on his wrists, or if there was something more. “I can’t ask him. It’s about… what happened to his mother. To him.”

Dr. Heller looked as though I’d sucker-punched him. “He told you about that?”

I shook my head. “No. I googled his name, looking for her obituary. When it didn’t give a clue how she died, I googled her name. Yours was in the article I found.”

He scowled. “Ms. Wallace, I’m not willing to talk about what happened to Rose Maxfield just to appease someone’s morbid curiosity.”

I took another shaky breath. “This isn’t curiosity.” I scooted to the edge of the chair. “His wrists—they’re both scarred. I’ve never known anyone who tried… that, and I’m afraid to say the wrong thing. You’ve known him all of his life. I’ve only known him a few weeks, but I care about him. A lot.”

He thought for a moment, and I knew he was weighing what to tell me, staring at me from under his bushy brows. It was hard to imagine that this soft-spoken, doughy man had once been a member of Special Forces. Hard to imagine he’d been the one to discover one of his closest friends, savagely murdered.

He cleared his throat, and I didn’t move. “I became good friends with Raymond Maxfield in grad school. We were both PhD-track, but while I planned to go the more typical teaching and researching route, Ray was bound for a more lucrative, non-academic career.

“We attended a small gathering at the home of one of our professors, whose daughter was an undergrad, living at home. She was stunning—all dark hair and dark eyes—so when she passed through on her way to the kitchen, Ray got up with an excuse to get ice, and I followed. He was my best friend, but I wasn’t letting him call dibs on a girl like that. It was every man for himself.” He chuckled softly.

“Five minutes later, I was feeling damned sure of my chances. He’d asked her major, and when she’d answered, ‘Art’, Ray had blurted out, ‘Your father is Dr. Lucas—one of the foremost minds in modern economics—and you’re studying art? What the hell are you gonna do with a degree in art?’”

He smiled, his eyes unfocused, remembering. “She drew herself up to all five foot two, eyes flashing, and said, ‘I’m going to make the world more beautiful. What are you going to do? Make money? I’m so impressed.’ She whirled around and left the kitchen. For days, Ray was furious that he hadn’t formulated a single retort while she was standing there.

“A week later, I ran into her in the coffee shop. She asked if I was as anti-art as my friend. I’m no dummy, so I exclaimed, ‘No way—I know how essential art is in the expression of the human condition!’ So she invited me to an exhibit she was having, and told me I could bring Ray. I immediately regretted telling him at all, because he was determined to impart those clever comebacks he’d been formulating since the night they met.

“The gallery was squeezed between a liquor store and a furniture rental place. As we walked to the door, Ray made a remark about the ‘more beautiful world’ she wasn’t making, and I wanted to kick myself again for bringing him.

“Rose walked up wearing a gauzy dress, her hair twisted up—very art student. With her was a smartly dressed blonde—Ray’s usual type—who she introduced as her best friend, and also a finance major. Ray barely noticed the other girl. ‘Where’s your stuff?’ he asked Rose. His question seemed to take the bite out of her. She was fidgety as she led us to the wall showcasing her paintings—watercolors. We all waited, tense, for Ray to pronounce judgment.

“He examined each piece without comment, and then he looked down at her, and said, ‘They’re beautiful. I don’t think you should ever do anything that isn’t this.’ She graduated three months later, and he had a ring on her finger that night. Once he finished his doctorate, they got married, and he started his career with a vengeance, as he’d always planned to do.

“Oddly enough, I ended up with the pretty finance major, and we married not long after they did. The four of us stayed close friends. Landon is like an older cousin to our three.”

Dr. Heller stopped and took a deep, sad breath, and my uneasiness returned.

“Ray was working for the FDIC. Lots of travel. I was teaching at Georgetown; we lived maybe twenty minutes from each other. When he couldn’t get in touch with them that night, Cindy and I drove over to check. We found Rose in her room, with Smith’s body, and Landon in his room.” Dr. Heller swallowed and I couldn’t breathe. “He was so hoarse from screaming he couldn’t speak, and his wrists were zip-tied to the bed post. He’d dragged that bed until it ran into other furniture and couldn’t go any further. His wrists were lacerated, trying to get loose from those ties to get to his mother. There was dried blood on his arms and the corner of the bed. That’s where the scars came from. He’d been like that fifteen, sixteen hours.”

My stomach heaved and tears streamed down my face, but Dr. Heller’s voice was flat. I sensed he was holding himself apart from the memory as much as he could. I felt cruel for making him relive such a horrible night.

“Rose was the emotional heart of the three of them. Ray adored her, and losing her that way, when he wasn’t there to protect her… He shut down. He’d made tremendous strides in his career, but he quit it all. Moved the two of them to his dad’s place on the coast, went back to the fishing boat he’d been so determined to never have any part of when he left home at eighteen. His father died a couple of years later, left him everything.

“Landon shut down in a different way. Cindy and I tried to tell Ray that he shouldn’t be uprooted from everything he knew, that he surely needed therapy, but Ray was out of his mind with grief. He couldn’t stand to be in that house or that city.”

He looked up at me then, pulling a tissue box from a desk drawer when he took in my face. “I think you need to get the rest from Landon—I mean, Lucas. He changed his name to his middle name—his mother’s maiden name—when he came here for college. Trying to reinvent himself, I guess. An eighteen-year habit is hard to break, and he hasn’t called me on it enough in the past three years.” He peered at me and exhaled. “I wish I’d never seen you leaving his apartment. As far as I’m concerned, any student/tutor restrictions are over. Just… so you know.”

I dabbed a tissue under my eyes and thanked him.

University restrictions were the least of my worries.

Chapter 22

“You’re a good cook.” I grabbed the empty glasses and followed Lucas to the sink. He rinsed the bowls of pesto remains and turned to take the glasses from me.

“Pasta’s easy—the college-version gold standard for impressing a date with your mad culinary skills.”

“So this is a date?” Before he could do an about-face, I added, “And you made the pesto from scratch—I watched you. That was impressive all on its own. Besides, you’ve never lived in a dorm, where the pasta choices are usually Chef Boyardee from a can, or two-for-a-dollar ramen noodles. The occasional Lean Cuisine. Trust me, your skills are positively epicurean.”