She rode around campus along Thurston to East, over to Hoy, damp morning air clinging to her skin. The clouds had thickened; maybe it would finally rain, breaking the heatwave. Harper left the cycle in the lot, following her usual routine as if it were just another hot summer day. As if she weren’t looking around, eyeing strangers. Pedestrians. Drivers. Detective Rivers’ warning had intensified Harper’s state of alert. Why was that guy in jogging gear lingering at the corner? Was he really reading that magazine? And that woman in the Bimmer – was she staring? Harper walked across the parking lot, braced for a fight, assuring herself that Detective Rivers was wrong. It was merely a coincidence that she’d seen both Graham and Chelsea shortly before their deaths. Nobody could reasonably think that the suicide and the murder were connected to each other, much less to her. Still, she was watchful. And bothered by something else. Trent’s insinuation plagued her. The idea of Hank and Vicki was absurd; Hank wouldn’t cheat.
