Inside His Madness (A Lucy Crimson Suspense Thriller--Book Seven) E-Book

Kate Bold

• Herausgeber: Lukeman Literary Management
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Lucy Crimson Suspense Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 255

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

"This is an excellent book… When you start reading, be sure you don't have to wake up early!" —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Dr. Lucy Crimson, criminal psychology professor, former BAU agent, has unmatched brilliance and expertise into the mind of serial killers, and is the one person the FBI turns to when they need help. But when a new killer targets her, matching her brilliance, the race is on to solve the cryptic clues before she may end up as the next victim… Lucy's expertise is put to the test when Boston's art scene becomes the canvas for murder, drawing her into an investigation chillingly similar to her sister's unresolved death. As she hunts for a killer whose delusions are cast him as inspiration, Lucy races to protect potential victims from becoming subjects in his deadliest piece yet. INSIDE HIS MADNESS is BOOK #7 in a new series by #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Kate Bold, whose bestseller NOT ME (a free download) has received over 3,00 five star ratings and reviews. The series begins with INSIDE HIS MIND (Book #1) The LUCY CRIMSON series is a heart-pounding page turner, packed with action, suspense and mystery that will compel you late into the night as you try to unravel the clues. Fans of Kendra Elliot, Teresa Driscoll, and Lee Child are sure to fall in love. Future books in the series are also available! "This book moved very fast and every page was exciting. Plenty of dialogue, you absolutely love the characters, and you were rooting for the good guy throughout the whole story… I look forward to reading the next in the series." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Kate did an amazing job on this book and I was hooked from the first chapter!" —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I really enjoyed this book. The characters were authentic, and I see the bad guys as something we hear about daily on the news... Looking forward to book 2." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "This was a really good book. The main characters were real, flawed and human. The story went along quickly and wasn't mired in too many unnecessary details. I really enjoyed it." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Alexa Chase is headstrong, impatient, but most of all brave with a capital B. She never, repeat never, backs down until the bad guys are put where they belong. Clearly five stars!" —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "WOW what a great read! Talk about a diabolical killer! Really enjoyed this book. Looking forward to reading others by this author as well." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Page turner for sure. Great characters and relationships. I got into the middle of this story and couldn't put it down. Looking forward to more from Kate Bold." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Hard to put down. It has an excellent plot and has the right amount of suspense. I really enjoyed this book." —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!" —Reader review for The Killing Game ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Leseprobe

I N S I D E

H I S

MADNESS

(A Lucy Crimson Mystery—Book 7)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.

Many of Kate’s books are available for free. Please visit Kate’s author page to find out more.

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

SERIES BY KATE BOLD

MEG THORNE

HEATHER KING

BRYNN JUSTICE

BETH DRAKE

MAGGIE FLIGHT

ADDISON SHINE

BARREN PINES

NINA VEIL

NORA PRICE

KELSEY HAWK

ALEXA CHASE

ASHLEY HOPE

CAMILLE GRACE

HARLEY COLE

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

PROLOGUE

Olivia Warner sat on her paint-splattered stool, a piece of furniture that had been covered with Jackson Pollock-like artworks over the course of a little more than a decade, each new coat different from the others, just as shuffling a deck of cards would order them into a sequence that no one had done before, like how no two snowflakes are alike.

Olivia doubted that fact; her artist brain couldn't comprehend how anyone could know that for sure without finding and examining every single snowflake that had fallen every year since the beginning of time. It wasn’t something she had dwelled on for long after thinking it when there were much more important things to worry about.

Such as the blank canvas that sat on the easel before her.

White as the driven snow, which caused her mind to briefly flicker with the snowflake problem as she decided where to begin. As a painting major, everyone she spoke to outside of the art college expected her to draw pretty landscapes or portraits of people. That was not how she worked. Olivia’s art was abstract, more gestural. She could feel the painting bubbling within her, and when she got started, it would all come spilling out.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, even though there was no sweat there, though she smeared a little paint, unbeknownst to her. Then, the brush was dipped in the acrylic paint, and a gestural swoosh drew a vertical arc upwards across the canvas like a samurai wielding a sword.

After the first stroke, the others flowed freely. It wasn’t things or people that Olivia painted, but emotions and feelings. The paint changed color as she worked, the brushes were switched in and out, sometimes opting for a knife to add paint to the canvas, but the emotion rippling through the piece remained the one constant.

She made one final stroke, and she was done.

Not done with the artwork, but done with the initial layer of paint. There would be more layers, and then she might sand some of the paint off before adding more, and the overall shape of the artwork could change, but the initial work had begun, and that was always the most challenging part.

Olivia stood up from the multicolored wooden stool and stood back from her work, surveying the wet streaks.

The light from above bounced off the colors on the canvas.

That was another thing that Olivia didn't understand. It was an art college, but all of the rooms were outfitted with buzzing fluorescent lights as if the original designer had assumed that the best way to view art was under a constant downpour of bright white. Everyone who had come after had agreed with that principle. The galleries were better and had softer light, but this meant that the artwork's current appearance was not quite how it would look when on display.

Olivia took a breath. The smell of her paint was at the forefront of the nasal assault; behind the acrylic was the faint smell of turpentine, charcoal dust, stale coffee, and other tangy chemicals. Easels and canvases stretched out around her like rigid geometric skeletons, waiting for their owners to bring them to life with some paint. They cast pale shadows under the harsh lights.

She wasn’t satisfied with her work, but then, she never was. It was her curse as an artist. No matter how much she worked on a painting, there was always more that could be done. She would work on every painting forever if she could.

She couldn’t.

There were deadlines and also life, which meant she had to finish a project and start a new one constantly. An artist had to produce art, after all.

Olivia put her hands on her hips. She looked toward the square window that offered her a glimpse into the exterior darkness, and gasped. Something had been there. Someone. She stared at the window. There was only darkness now, but for a brief moment, a circular blackness had emerged within the darkness, and it had moved when she’d spotted it.

She went to the window, not considering that she might be afraid of someone standing outside in the darkness, watching her. She stared into the black, complete blackness in the immediate distance, looking down the hill toward the lights of the city. Shadows were static, others moved, but none were humanoid. There could have been monsters and creatures out there, but as long as their shadows weren’t human in shape, they weren’t as terrifying.

She watched, remaining still at the window, waiting for the slightest movement.

I can't see you, but can you see me?

Even with thoughts like that running through her mind, she wasn’t scared. She had no reason to be. Her life had been privileged up until that point, and she didn’t have any enemies—not the sort who would want to hurt her. It didn't occur to her that it was anything other than someone curiously peering in.

Boston remained silent and unmoving outside. The window shielded from the city noise that would become apparent when stepping outside, and the people and traffic out in the late evening were too far away to appear as moving. It made for a serene place to work on art.

The gentle knock at the door stirred her from her gazing out into the darkness. She turned as the door opened. Olivia smiled when she recognized her visitor.

"Working late again?" he asked.

"I can't seem to think when there are other people around," Olivia answered. "Even if they’re quiet, it still distracts me. I get most of my work done when everyone has gone home."

"You shouldn’t make a habit of being here alone late at night," he warned her. "You don't know the sort of people who are lurking about at this time."

The mention of lurkers reminded her of what she thought she had seen.

"There was someone…maybe there was someone. I thought I saw a person at the window, looking in."

"Looking in and watching you?" he asked.

"I don't know," Olivia admitted.

"Why do you think they were doing that?" he asked.

Olivia thought about it. She didn't know why they were looking in, or if someone was watching from outside, and she would never know. A chill ran down her spine as she thought about the answer to the question—not because of what the answers might contain but because of the nonchalance of the question. He didn't seem worried about someone lurking outside, and his question was more conversational than concerned.

"What were you doing here so late?" she asked as she turned her attention back to her visitor.

"I needed to take care of something, and I wanted to come and see you, Olivia."

There was no emotion in the voice, as if someone had typed it and had their computer dictate it. He didn't stare at her, but toward the window and the darkness beyond.

"Well, I should go," Olivia said. "I have a friend coming to meet me, and she’ll be wondering why I haven’t left the studio."

"You don’t," he said.

Olivia’s eyes widened, and she took a step back.

"I know you’re here alone, but you’ll not be leaving alone." He made a clicking sound with his lips. "That’s why I came here tonight. I knew you would be alone, and I didn't want you walking out of the building by yourself. I’ll be with you, Olivia."

It took all of her strength not to collapse to the floor under the weight of her own terror. He had been the one standing at the window watching her. She didn't know for how long, but when she had spotted him, he had decided to come inside.

She tried to laugh, the sound coming out more like a raspy cough. "You’ve always had a dark sense of humor. Sure, we can walk out together?" She began toward the door. "We should go for coffee or something sometime?" She hoped to cut through the unbearable tension.

His hand snapped like a crocodile grabbing its prey, and he took her arm in a vice-like grip, stopping her in her tracks.

"Please," Olivia begged, tears clouding her vision.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I can't let you go out there alone, Olivia. Who knows what’s waiting out there for you?"

"Please." The word shook as much as her body.

"It’s time to leave, Olivia. We’ll leave together, and then you’ll leave, well, forever."

CHAPTER ONE

Lucy Crimson was six inches short of being six feet tall. She’d often thought about describing her height in that way as opposed to admitting that she was five and a half feet in stature, but had never said it out loud to anyone, not even Sam Spears, who sat across from her in the library of her Victorian home.

She didn't think she was the type of person to describe any facet of her appearance or character in any other way than by stating the facts. It didn't feel right.

That meant that she was five feet six, forty-one years of age, slim, moderately attractive with pale blue eyes, long light brown hair, and pale white skin. It would have sounded far better to describe herself in more poetic ways, but a more floral description of herself didn't change how she actually looked.

Lucy was a professor of criminal psychology at Gate’s University’s prestigious (more and more because of her work in aiding in the capture of multiple serial killers over the past two years) Criminal Justice Department. Her groundbreaking research into the psychology of serial offenders within the Boston justice system made her a leading authority in her field.

It was another quiet Sunday morning in her Victorian Home, which had been under constant renovation since she bought it shortly before her divorce was finalized. It had been done on a whim, but if she could go back and do it all over again, she would do so in a heartbeat. It had taken a lot of work to get it livable, and there was a lot more work to get it looking how she wanted it to look, but it was home.

Not only home for her, but also for her partner, now that he has moved in with her.

"I was thinking that we could tackle the guest bedroom next," Lucy suggested before taking a sip of her espresso. "I know we’re not inundated with requests to stay here, but it would be nice, and maybe my dad could come and stay with us sometimes."

Sam looked over at her from above the book he was reading as he enjoyed his morning coffee. Always drip coffee with a little cream, never joining Lucy in her espresso, but still sharing the communal coffee drinking of a lazy Sunday, the laziness and quietness were extremely welcome when their jobs were often volatile.

"I’m fine with that if you are." He didn't go back to his book, holding her gaze.

"What?" she asked.

"I hear the hesitation in your voice. Are you only saying that because you think it's the right thing to do, or do you really want him to stay with us? And are you thinking a day here and there, or is this a permanent thing? I know how much you hate him living alone."

"I don't know," Lucy admitted. "It still feels strained with Dad. There was a hit-and-run incident shortly before Desiree was killed that he took the blame for because he knew he could count on the law being lenient on a judge, which I don't agree with, of course, but I still understand why he protected her like that. Then there’s the possibility that her death is not as simple as we first thought, not that it was ever simple, but if evidence has been hidden, then it points out the flaws in a justice system that he took advantage of but doesn’t want to admit is flawed, and I know he doesn’t want to dredge up the past anymore. I know it’s a lot for him to deal with, and he’s only getting older. A part of him wants justice, I know that, but another part wants to forget the past and for me to do the same. He knows how much of my focus is still drawn back over two decades. He can see how all of this affects me, and I understand how that affects him, but I can't let go of this."

"I see how it affects you," Sam said.

"So, now, you're going to have a go at me, too?"

"You know I’m not going to do that, at least not intentionally," Sam told her. "I only want the best for you, and I know you know that. I was only going to say that I see how it affects you, and I’m with you through it all, no matter where it leads. We both know that he’s scared by what might be dredged up. If there was a cover-up back then for any reason, and you start tugging at those threads, what happens to your family?"

"Are you scared you might get hurt?" Lucy asked, trying to be playful in the seriousness of the situation.

"I’m worried you might get hurt," he replied. "I can't let that happen."

Lucy offered him a smile, one that she tried to give without any tightness in her jaw, failing miserably at that. He held her gaze for a moment before giving her some space and going back to his book.

She wouldn’t be where she is today without Sam. He was her partner in many ways. They were formally together, and it was wonderful. He had moved into her house, while keeping his apartment for now, with the thought of renting it out. Her house was beautiful, and with the renovations, it made sense for him to move in with her so they could continue with them. He had helped her long before they had entered a formal relationship, and he was putting in the sweat equity that could lead to them calling the house their own at some point in the future.

They were also informal partners at work. Lucy had consulted on and off with the FBI, but over the last two years, she had worked closely with Sam on serial killer cases. They made a great team. They each had attributes that worked together well and often overlapped, but when it all boiled down and distilled, she was the brains and he was the brawn.

Lucy studied him as he read his book. She didn't like to describe herself in flowery terms, and Sam was not the sort of man who could be described with such either. Not that he wasn’t extremely good-looking, but that he was too much of a man. Not a man in the sense that he fell into any stereotypes, but a man in the sense that he protected those around him and looked out for those who couldn’t look out for themselves.

Sam was an ex-Navy SEAL, tall, broad, and strong. He had the build and look of a Viking, but with short hair and no beard. Still, his hair was blonde, his eyes blue, and his skin fair. He worried about the people around him and protected them when needed, but quicker than his protective reactions was his infectious smile. He spread happiness in a way that most people couldn’t, and he didn't need to try to do so.

She wasn’t angry at him, only frustrated with her sister’s cold case. Twenty-two years and no one was any closer to figuring out what had happened to Desiree, other than she had been found dead in an alley close to the arts college she had attended for two years, never graduating, not making it past her twenty-second birthday.

"I haven’t spoken to Dad for two weeks," Lucy told Sam. "I don't know what to say to him right now, and with how we left it the last time, I don't know if he wants to speak to me right now."

"He’ll contact you when he’s ready, though he’s probably sitting at home thinking he same things you are thinking. Stubbornness runs in the family."

Lucy smiled as she glanced over at Sm and his book. "I thought the corner of shame was for the books we’re not going to read?"

Sam smiled and looked up from his Western. "And I suppose you haven’t been reading any of your cheesy romance books?"

"I’m not the one under interrogation," Lucy stated.

When Sam had moved in, his books had come with him, and Lucy had made fun of his pulp Western fiction, only stopping when he found her secret stash of romance novels. They agreed together that both sets of books should be held in the bookshelf in the corner, leading to the corner being christened the Corner of Shame. It was a corner of the library that they both read from, but neither liked to admit it.

Sam ran his tongue behind his bottom lip. "At least mine have a plot."

Lucy opened her mouth slightly, feigning shock. "I can't believe you would have the audacity to claim something like that. My books have plots. Of course, they have plots. What’s your plot? There’s a bad guy, and the good guy gets him in the end?"

"I mean, it’s not quite as simple as that," Sam said. "What are your plots? A couple hate each other to start with, fall for each other, have problems that drive them apart, then come together and fall in love at the end?"

"It’s not quite as simple as that," Lucy said begrudgingly.

Sam chuckled, and his eyes were drawn back down to his book in satisfaction. Lucy shook her head and went back to her own book.

It was a perfect Sunday morning.

***

Lucy moved through the attic later that day, and dust kicked up with each step. The attic was already finished when she moved in, the wooden floor laid across the beams, but no matter how much Lucy cleaned the room, there was always dust. The ceiling hung too low to have a functioning room, so it was mostly used as storage.

There were boxes of Christmas decorations that she had bought when she was with her ex-husband James, and she thought they had bought them together; she had been the one to pick them out, and he never really cared if they hung them at Christmas or not.

Two boxes were filled with her mother’s clothing, the garments she couldn’t bear to donate after she passed from breast cancer when Lucy was sixteen. Then boxes of her own clothes that she was sure she would wear again someday, some files from when she first consulted with the FBI, along with personal files, and random household items that she’d never found a place for.

Lucy moved toward the back of the attic, where she had stored the boxes containing her sister’s belongings.

She took hold of one and dragged it over beside a box of files, where she sat and opened the moved box. There were many things inside. A scarf that still smelled of Desiree, even after twenty years, a button she had once worn that advocated for more women in academia, Desiree’s favorite novel, a thick stack of photographs, and a pile of journals, including the one she had been writing in up to two days before she was killed.

Lucy took that one and opened it. She flipped to the last entries. There were words on the page, then nothing, a basket of white like a meadow after a blizzard. She read the final entry, dated two days before Desiree was killed.

I think I have a migraine coming on, but I won’t know until later this afternoon. Not bad enough to stop me from going to class. I have an artwork inside of me, but I don't know how to get it out just yet. Time solves everything, both the migraine and my ideas. I feel off today.

That was it—the last written words (as far as Lucy knew) of her sister Desiree. There was something both mundane and poetic about them.

Were there other things going through your head when you wrote this? Did you know the person who killed you? Were you thinking about them when you wrote this?

Lucy studied the handwriting, looking for anything in the way the words were written to hint at what her sister felt at the moment stuck in time. She flipped back through the pages, looking for something that might explain what had happened, but there was nothing.

It was a necessary act to understand what had happened to her sister in the past, but it still felt like a violation through time to be reading her sister’s private thoughts.

"Hey, are you up there?" Sam called from the landing below.

Lucy crawled over to the square hole, looking down.

Sam stood looking up at her through the square hole. His eyes were wide, his mouth twisted at the corner. He didn't speak.

"What’s going on?" Lucy asked.

Sam shook his head. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out.

"What?" Lucy pleaded.

"It’s messed up," Sam said. "I don't know what to make of it."

Lucy widened her eyes: tell me.

"A student was just brutally murdered and left on the university campus."

CHAPTER TWO

Lucy strapped herself in after getting in Sam’s car and held the journal tightly on her lap. Sam clicked his seatbelt into place and started the car.

"Are you sure you want to come along?" Sam asked.

"She was found dead at Weston College of Art. I need to be there."

"All right. So much for a quiet Sunday evening," he replied.

"I would say something cheesy about crime never sleeping, so we shouldn’t either, but I don't think I’m the type of person to pull that off," Lucy said.

Sam pulled away from Lucy’s Victorian house and nodded. "You’re the type of person who can pull off numerous things brilliantly, but saying things like that is definitely not one of them. To be fair, I don't think I could pull it off either."

"I don't know." Lucy absently ran a finger over the top of the book in her lap. "If you were caught in the moonlight with a long coat and had some stubble growing, then I can see it."

"Okay, so don't save and invest in a coat that goes past my knees?"

 "Let’s try you saying it under the moonlight first and see if that works, then we can move on to the gritty detective noir look if it doesn’t."

"Always so logical, that’s what I like about you." Sam glanced at Lucy, then back to the road ahead.

Lucy looked down at her lap. She knew she had the book with her, but hadn’t acknowledged it at the same time. She was aware she had a book in her hand when leaving the house, but it hadn’t registered what book it was until that moment. She held the journal she had been reading up in the attic. Sam hadn’t mentioned it yet, but the side glance told her he knew she was holding it and bringing it along for the journey.

"Desiree’s diary," Lucy explained. "I was up in the attic reading it when you got the call. I…I didn't mean to bring it with me."

It wasn’t that she didn't want to bring the diary with her. When she read her sister’s words, she felt closer to her. It was unlikely there was anything to be gained from her entries leading up to her death, but that wasn’t why Lucy clutched the diary now. It was a link to the past, a bond that tied her to Desiree. She wanted to solve the murder, but more than anything, she wanted her sister back.

"I know it’s the same college Desiree went to," Sam said.

"It’s stupid," Lucy claimed. "I should have stayed at home and let you go and investigate the case."

"I’m glad you’re here with me, if only for the reason that cases are usually solved quickly when you are part of them, and there are some cases that wouldn’t have been solved at all if not for you."

"That makes me feel a little better," Lucy admitted.

"If I can make you feel a little better on the way to a murder scene, then my job is done," Sam replied.

Lucy burst into laughter, quickly stifling it, and then letting the laughter out a second later. "That’s so dark, Sam. Is it dark?"

"You’re laughing on the way to a crime scene. I’m not sure what that is anymore," Sam admitted.

"A part of me believes it could be the same guy. That’s the really foolish part." Lucy looked down at the journal in her lap. She ran a hand over the cover. "A part of me wonders: what if he went into hiding for twenty years, and he’s back targeting the college again. I know that Desiree’s death wasn’t linked to any others around that time, so there’s no way to link the death to the college conclusively, and she was found off-campus, but I can't get that thought out of my head. What if the college is the link, and we can't prove that until now? It’s bordering on madness."

Sam took a second, measuring his response as he pulled off the highway toward Weston College of Art. He had a quick wit, as he had already shown by making Lucy laugh as they drove to an atrocity, but when it came to the stuff that truly mattered, he wasn’t quick to speak.

"It’s no crazier than most of us are in our daily lives," Sam told her. "Your sister’s death has been weighing on your mind for over twenty years, and I know you’ll never stop thinking about the case until it is solved. Because of that, I’m in this with you, too. You won't let this case go, and neither should you, and I won't let it go either. It’s more likely that the two cases are unrelated, but we keep an open mind. If they are related, we need to understand that link."

"It doesn’t make sense, does it?" Lucy spoke as she looked out of the passenger window at the passing buildings, vehicles, and people. "It doesn’t fit any profile that I can conjure. I’m certain the two deaths are not connected, but I want them to be. I really want them to be."

Lucy’s stomach tied itself in knots. She was a logical person, but her current reasons for being on the case were dictated more by feelings than logic. She didn't turn to look at Sam. There was no particular look on her face, but she still didn't want to look him in the eyes. She didn't want her life to be ruled by emotion, but it was her master for now.

"I would want the same if I were in your position," Sam said. "There’s still some logic behind your emotions on this one. Desiree and our current victim went to the same university. They are both young women. They were both murdered. They might have happened twenty years apart, but that’s enough of a start to look at the two cases together."

"You’re biased," Lucy pointed out.

"And I don't try to hide it," Sam replied.

Lucy continued to look out of the passenger window, but she smiled as they approached the college campus.

If she had the time and energy to consult on every single homicide in the city, she would do it in a heartbeat, but there were far too many to work every case. She was generally brought in when they needed an expert profiler to get inside the killer’s head, and that was most often in the case of serial killers. The crime scene they were on the way to was only a single homicide, and the only reason Lucy was on her way there was because the body had been found at the same campus where her sister went to college.