Reap The Whirlwind

Book 2 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries

By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026

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Chapter 12

When I got back to the apartment, I told Aidan what Mrs. Taylor had said.

"So the police are looking for you?" he repeated, looking as exhausted as I felt.

I shrugged. "Sounds like it. What should I do?"

"Do you have anything to hide?"

"No."

"Then you should go talk to them before they have to hunt you down. That makes it seem like you're guilty of something."

"But... I don't want to." I sounded like a whiny little kid even to myself. "I'm scared," I added, which did not help.

"Will, did you kill Joey?"

"What?" I gasped. "No!"

"Then go talk to the police and get it over with. The longer you wait, the worse it will be."

"Will you go with me?" I asked in a small voice.

Aidan was shaking his head no before I even finished the question. "No way. I'm not involved and I'd prefer to stay that way. You can do this, Will."

I sighed. I hated when he was right.

I decided to go before I lost my nerve. I headed back out and looked up the police station on my GPS. Once I started driving, though, I realized I had no idea what to do once I got there. Who did I ask for? The police chief? He was the only person I'd seen on the news, but you didn't just ask for the police chief, did you? Everything I knew about police work, which wasn't much, I'd learned from watching reruns of Law and Order.

I'd never been to the police station before, but I guess I had some sort of preconceived notion of an old, rundown dump with flickering fluorescent lighting and stained carpet. What I found couldn't have been farther from what I had envisioned. The police station was housed in a modern, multi-story brick building that looked more like a high school than a jail.

I finally worked up enough nerve to go inside where I found a lobby reminiscent of a doctor's waiting room, complete with sofas, tables, and magazines. It was empty, aside from a scruffy, scrawny guy with his eyes glued to the talk show playing on the mounted TV.

A bored-looking uniformed officer sat at the front desk, separated from the lobby by a thick layer of bulletproof glass.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I, uh, need to talk to somebody working on Joey Taylor's death. Uh, Joseph Taylor."

The woman took a little more interest in me. "What about? You have information about his death?"

"No!" I said quickly. "He was my friend and I went to see his mom today and she said you were looking for me."

She raised her eyebrows. "Looking for you? Who was? Why?"

"I don't know. I mean, I was at the party. People saw me with him. But I don't know what happened after that."

"Save it for the detectives. Have a seat."

I perched on the edge of the couch and waited for what seemed like ages before a door buzzed and swung open to reveal a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a craggy, clean-shaven face and brown hair just starting to gray at the temples. His bushy eyebrows hooded his dark eyes, making him look slightly sinister. He eyed me for a second, making me feel like a bug under a microscope.

"You the kid who wants to talk about Joseph Taylor?"

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Then right this way."

He led me through an open office area filled with cubicles and into a room with a table and chairs. I'd seen enough cops shows to know it was an interrogation room. My palms began to sweat.

There was a woman sitting at the table waiting for us in the room, younger than my guide by a couple of decades, with a round face and a smooth, warm brown complexion. She was also well dressed in a dark blazer over a striped button-down shirt, gray slacks and a pair of no-nonsense heels. Her curly black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her sharp, dark eyes took me in as I stepped through the door.

She stood and nodded a silent greeting. I nodded back nervously.

The man who'd brought me back stepped in and closed the door. "Have a seat."

I sat down at the table across from the woman, who reclaimed her seat. The man remained standing. They both just stared at me for several long seconds, then the woman started tapping a ballpoint pen against a notebook on the table in front of her.

Just when I thought I couldn't take it any more, the man cleared his throat and said, "I'm Detective Grafton, and this is my partner, Detective Hammett. We're working the Taylor case. Why don't you start with your name?"

"My name is Will Keegan."

They exchanged glances.

"We've been looking for you, Mr. Keegan."

"Yeah, that's, um... That's what Mrs. Taylor, Joey's mom, said when I went to see her this afternoon. Am I in trouble?" I asked, instinctively directing the question at Detective Hammett. I sounded guilty even to myself.

Detective Grafton gave me a sharp look. "I don't know, are you?"

Detective Hammett cocked her head to one side. "Were you at the party held at the Omega Kappa Zeta house this past Friday night?"

"Briefly," I said tightly.

Authority figures had always scared the pants off of me. I'd been sent to the principal's office once when I was in the fifth grade for something Joey had done and I'd gotten blamed for. I cried all the way there and was so hysterical by the time I arrived that they had to call my mom to come pick me up. I was feeling a bit like that at that moment.

Hammett made a note. "Do you remember what you were wearing that night?"

"Yes, a yellow shirt and jeans."

"Did you see or speak to Joseph Taylor while you were there?" Grafton asked.

"Joey. He hated the name Joseph. Um, yes. We talked."

"Do you know what time you talked to him?"

"No."

"Why were you there?"

"I went there to talk to him. I'm not even into parties." I knew I was giving them more information than they needed, but I was nervous and having trouble organizing my thoughts. "He was drunk. He suggested we go upstairs, so we did."

"Upstairs where?"

"He took me to a bedroom. He seemed to know where he was going. I just followed him."

"What happened when you got to the bedroom?"

"We talked."

"What did you talk about?"

"We talked about...our friendship."

"Was it an argument? Did you raise your voice at any time?"

"I... Yeah, we had an argument."

"Over what?"

I felt my already flushed face blaze. I was getting quite dizzy. "I...I...uh...recently told Joey that I was...um...gay...and he didn't...take it well."

"Did it become physical?"

I started. "What do you mean?"

Detective Grafton looked up from his notepad. "Did you fight?"

"He, uh... He threw me against the door a couple of times."

"Were any punches thrown?"

"I..." I swallowed. The room was spinning. "I...hit him."

"Why? Did you feel threatened?"

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but nothing came out.

"Look, kid, you'd better tell us everything. We're going to find out eventually anyway, and it's better if it comes from you."

"It's not like that," I said quickly. "It's just...Joey...tried to...force himself on me," I managed to choke it out then rushed on, "He was drunk or he never would have done anything like that..."

"Is that why you hit him?"

I nodded. "I kneed him in the balls, then hit him with my cast," I told them, indicating my broken arm as if I were presenting Exhibit A in court.

The two detectives looked at each other, exchanging meaningful glances. "And then what happened?" he asked.

"Nothing. I mean, I left. Ran back downstairs."

"And then you left the party?"

"After I got sick in the bathroom."

Grafton flipped the notebook closed. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Keegan. If we have any more questions, we'll be getting in touch with you."

"That's it?" I asked in surprise.

"You were expecting more?" Hammett said with a sardonic smile.

"Just...I mean, why were you even looking for me? How did Joey die?"

They exchanged glances again, this time they almost seemed to be having a discussion without words. Finally, Hammett sighed. "When the coroner checked your friend over, there were some unexplained injuries: a dislocated nose and some slight bruising in the groin area. Our job was to explain those injuries. You've just helped us do that. As long as he was alive when you left him—"

"He was!" I asserted firmly.

"Yes, that was corroborated by witnesses who saw you flee the upstairs bedroom. The official finding will cite the cause of death to be accidental drowning. We have to write our report up, but I expect that after you left he somehow managed to get downstairs and onto the pool deck without anyone seeing him. Considering the amount of drugs seized at the party that isn't as hard to believe as one might think, plus everyone agreed the yard was pretty much deserted for most of the night. Then in his drunken state — which is supported by other statements, by the way — he fell into the pool, maybe hit his head and drowned. The medical examiner confirms that he had enough alcohol in his system to stun a bull elephant."

Detective Grafton seemed eager for me to leave. "Once again, Mr. Keegan, thank you for your time and cooperation. You've helped us close this case."

I nodded and stood up, and Detective Grafton opened the door and walked me out.

"Thanks again for coming in, kid. You did the right thing," he said, before closing the door in my face.

I should have felt relieved that it was just a tragic accident, but I didn't. It all felt too pat, the evidence fit together a little too neatly, the detective felt a little too eager to close the case.

Something felt off.

Joey's funeral was held a week later on a suitably dreary and dismal Monday morning. The clouds hung heavy with the unrealized threat of rain and the wind whipped through the gathered mourners like an angry wraith.

Aidan came with me, for which I was very grateful. I wasn't sure I was up for attending on my own.

The service was graveside and, despite the inclement weather, quite a few people had shown up to remember Joey. Most of them I didn't know — family, I supposed — but I saw a few familiar faces: old neighbors, people from school, and, of course, Laura, who came with Gabe.

And then there was Beth. It was the first time we'd seen each other since our breakup, and it was every bit as uncomfortable as you might think. We exchanged an awkward hug that only served to confirm my recent realizations.

As I settled on one of the metal folding chairs between Laura and Aidan, it struck me how much I had changed since Beth and I had dated. I felt like a completely different person.

Just to drive that point home even more, Mom and Dad arrived with Mrs. Taylor and her sisters, Mel and Misty. Mrs. Taylor and Mom each gave me a hug, but Dad just walked right past me to take his place behind the lectern. Apparently, he was the officiant, which made sense, but, for some reason, I hadn't anticipated.

The service itself was mercifully brief and poignant. Dad focused on how no man knows the day or hour and the tragic end of a promising young life. He kept looking directly at me as he said that phrase: tragic end of a promising young life. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was trying to say.

The third time he tried to glare me into submission, I deliberately looked away. As I did, someone caught my attention. A stocky man with a receding hairline and dark sunglasses stood off to one side, half hidden by a large grave monument. The sunglasses seemed especially suspicious considering the heavy cloud cover. As I watched, he reached up and wiped his eyes. I wondered who he was and why he was trying so hard to avoid being seen.

I forced my attention back to my father for the remainder of the service. As Dad started the final prayer, I checked for the mysterious man but he was gone.

Mrs. Taylor cornered me before we could slip away. "Thank you for being here, Will," she said, gripping my hand painfully. "Are you coming back to the house?"

"I'm afraid I can't, Mrs. Taylor," I said, relieved that I had a legitimate excuse. "I'm actually starting a new job today."

She looked taken aback for a second, but quickly forced a teary smile. "Oh, well, I'm glad you were able to make the funeral, at least."

"I couldn't miss it, Mrs. Taylor. Joey was my best friend."

Her lip trembled as she pulled me into a tight hug.

When I finally managed to disentangle myself, I said my goodbyes, and Aidan and I headed back to the car. After dropping Aidan off at home, I drove downtown to Avant Garde.

Nikki was waiting for me and pounced before I was even fully inside the gallery. "There you are! So, the first thing we need to talk about is the one-man show," she said. "Do we need to cancel it?"

"I...uh..."

"I mean we've lost a lot of time, and I'm assuming you didn't paint any masterpieces while you were in that coma."

"No, I mean...I..."

"How long are you stuck with this?" She asked, tapping on my cast.

"They said six to eight weeks..."

"And it's been how long?"

"Three?"

She sighed. "Can you even paint with that fucker on your arm? Are you right handed?"

"Yes..."

"Yes, you can paint, or yes, you're right handed?"

"Yes?"

"Okay, don't freak out on me here, but we are getting seriously crunched for time. We need to have at least fifteen to twenty paintings. The show is scheduled and the invitations have been sent, so we're locked in unless we just cancel it altogether. I mean, we could always reschedule but it's not a good look unless you have a really good story. Not that being in a coma isn't a good story, but I'm assuming you'd rather not make that a part of your artist statement. That only leaves us with three weeks to get the work finished and get them all matted and framed. I'm fine with staying up all night to get them hung, but that means you need to do at least a painting a day between now and then. Think you got that in you?"

"Can we... Can we slow down? I just walked in. Whatever happened to, 'Hi, Will, welcome to your new job? How was your weekend?'" I was feeling more than a little overwhelmed.

"Hi, Will! Welcome to your new job! How was your weekend? Think you got that in you?"

"My weekend was horrible, actually."

Nikki frowned. "Why was your weekend horrible?"

"My best friend died. That's where I was this morning, at his funeral. Oh, um, thanks for letting me come in late, by the way."

"Oh, my God! Your friend died and you came to work? You could have just taken the whole day and started tomorrow. Wait, was that your friend on the news?"

"Yeah. Joey."

"I'm so sorry, Will. I didn't know. Now I feel like an absolute cunt. Why didn't you tell me? I just figured you had a doctor's appointment or something."

"It's not a big deal. I mean, it is, but it isn't. It's...complicated. We'd grown apart lately. Actually, we had a huge fight the night he died."

"Jesus. How long did you know each other?"

"Since we were kids."

"Do they know what happened yet?"

I frowned. "The police think he fell in the pool and drowned."

She covered her mouth. "Oh, Will! How awful. And you fought with him? Are you sure you're up to starting work today?"

"Yeah, I'm...fine. Or close enough, anyway. I need to stay busy, keep my mind off of things, you know?"

She didn't look convinced. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She sighed. "Okay, but if it gets to be too much, just let me know. Promise?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. "Let's circle back to my earlier questions. Can you even paint with that cast on?"

I shrugged. "I think so. I haven't tried yet, but I'm pretty sure I can hold a paintbrush." I hoped I was right.

"Does one painting a day sound doable?"

"Sure." It sounded lowkey terrifying, but I wasn't going to say that.

"Great! Oh, and I had a stroke of genius in the shower the other day," Nikki said, already entirely too pleased with herself. "I think your showstopper should be the frog painting — the first one you showed me."

"Oh." The word slipped out before I could mask my reaction.

I could see why she picked it. It was arguably the best thing I’d ever painted, but that was exactly the problem. It was personal, too personal. The idea of hanging it on a gallery wall, of putting a price tag on it, made my stomach tighten.

"That’s cool, right? I really want this show to make an impact."

"Yeah, um...totally."

"Atta boy," she grinned. "Now let’s get to work."

She went over my responsibilities, which, at least for my first day, mostly consisted of standing around and doing nothing while I waited for customers to wander in. She showed me how to accept payment if I made a sale, but she spent the majority of our time coaching me on how to read clients by asking them leading questions in order to steer them toward the kind of art they'd most likely purchase. We even role played with her pretending to be various types of customers.

The only thing I didn't learn was how to do Dante's little appearing trick.

When I got home that evening, I pulled out the frog painting. But when I saw it again, my earlier doubts returned with a vengeance. It was, without question, the most personal thing I’d ever created. Could I really let someone else own it?

I stood there, staring at it for so long that Aidan finally noticed and came over.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, his voice casual but concerned.

"Nikki wants to make this the centerpiece of the show, but I’m not sure I want to sell it," I admitted.

"Why not?"

"I don’t know. It just feels...too intimate."

"What do you mean?"

"I put so much of myself into it. It almost feels like I’m selling a part of me, like a piece of my soul."

Aidan leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Well, nobody’s forcing you. Just tell Nikki you want to keep it. Or can't you mark it as not for sale?"

"I guess. Do you think I’m being dramatic?"

"Will, you’re always dramatic. But hey, that comes with being an artist, right? You feel things deeply. But it’s your painting, so you get to decide what happens to it."

"Yeah, you’re right. I’m probably just being ridiculous. I should include it."

"That’s not exactly what I said, but okay," Aidan said with a raised eyebrow.

Once the decision was made, a weight lifted off my shoulders. I’d leave it up to fate. If it sold, it sold. I could use the money, and, besides, if I’d painted it once, I could always paint it again. In theory. Then again, who knew if I could ever recapture that particular spark — the perfect alchemy of excitement, hope, fear, and confusion that had fueled it the first time?

The next several days were blessedly uneventful. I went to work during the day and spent the evening painting. It took a little trial and error, but it turned out I was able to hold a paintbrush and manage fairly well, even with the cast. Sketching was a lot harder, but I figured it out. The paintings themselves were coming along well and I'd managed to stay on schedule, finishing one painting a day. The pictures I'd taken the day Joey died had turned out great, so I had plenty of material for inspiration, and the artwork was a welcome escape from my thoughts.

Aidan and I continued to work on rebuilding the trust between us, and, in turn, piece our friendship back together. It was a slow process. We were sleeping in our own rooms after that first night, but he'd returned to sitting next to me while I painted, sometimes reading or doing class work, sometimes just watching, sometimes chatting with me if it wasn't too distracting.

I hadn't heard from Caitlin, but, on Aidan's advice, I waited for her to call me. I was at home painting when she finally called. I was alone for a change — Aidan had gone out with some friends from one of his classes. I was working on a particularly detailed portion of the painting when the phone started ringing, so I ignored it at first. Eventually, it stopped, but then immediately started up again.

With a sigh, I dropped my paintbrush in the water well and grabbed my phone. When I saw Caitlin's name, however, my attitude changed.

"Caitlin, hi," I answered. "I've been hoping you would call."

"Yeah, sorry I haven't called before this, but this isn't the kind of thing you decide overnight, you know?"

"Yeah, sure. It's okay."

"Look, Will, I've been doing a lot of thinking and..." A long pause followed, and, for a moment, I thought we'd lost our connection, but then she continued. "Look, I don't feel like going into this over the phone. Can you meet sometime tomorrow to talk about this?"

"Of course. Um...how about during my lunch break. I'm working at Avant Garde, an art gallery on the Downtown Plaza. There's an outdoor café nearby where we can meet, if you want."

"That works. I know which one you're talking about."

"Great!"

"Okay, I'll see you then."

"See you tomorrow."

I hung up wondering what kind of news I'd be getting the next day. I hadn't been able to read anything from her voice, but I had a feeling whatever she decided would affect me deeply.

I was alone at work the next morning when a uniformed deliveryman entered the gallery with a large padded envelope in hand.

"Will Keegan?" he said.

"That's me," I said in surprise.

"Got something for ya. You have to sign for it." He held out his device, and I scrawled a vague approximation of my signature using my finger before he handed me the package.

I glanced at the label but it only had my name and the address of the gallery, with no return address.

"Hey, wait...who's it from?" I called to his retreating back.

He paused at the door long enough to yell back, "Beats me, buddy. I only deliver 'em."

I looked at the envelope again. The label was in all caps, printed from a computer, revealing nothing.

I gingerly tore open the top, and peeked inside. The only contents were single folded sheet of paper. I slid it out, opened it, and read the lone sentence written in the same anonymous font as the label.

"IT WASN'T AN ACCIDENT"

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as a ringing started up in my ears and the room seemed to tilt dramatically.

The note seemed to imply something I'd felt in my gut all along. Joey's death wasn't an accident. It was something far more sinister. Or was I reading too much into four words? But what else could it be referring to?

Maybe there was something else in the envelope.

I tipped the envelope over my hand and gave it a quick shake. Something small and metallic shot out, fast as a spark—I barely saw it, but my hand snapped closed just in time.

The moment I opened my fingers and saw it in my palm, I knew exactly what it was. I'd seen it a thousand times — but always around Joey's neck.

It was his missing necklace.

I stared at it while the world around me receded. Who sent it? How did they get it? Why send it to me with an anonymous note? If it was someone at the party, how did they even know who I was, let alone where I worked? And, most importantly, what was I supposed to do with it?

The obvious answer was to take it to the police, but they'd already closed the case? Would they listen to me? Would they even believe me?

My brain came back around to my first question: Who sent it? It almost had to be someone I knew, or at least someone who knew me.

The very thought sent a chill down my spine.

The only person I knew of who was at the party who also knew who I was and where I worked was Caitlin. But if she'd found the necklace, why ship it to me? Why not just hand it over? Plus, she'd only learned where I worked the night before. Was that even enough time to ship a package? It had to be someone else, but who?

I curled my fingers around the necklace once more and made a decision. I had to go to the police. Whether they listened or not, I knew it was the right thing to do. I'd go right after work. I would have asked Nikki and gone right then, but a quick glance at my phone reminded me that it was time to meet Caitlin, and I didn't want to postpone our talk.

Where could I put the necklace for safekeeping? I took a closer look and realized the thin silver chain was broken, which explained why it wasn't on Joey when they found him. I knew there was no way he'd even take it off willingly. My heart ached at all the memories it brought back.

I quickly tied a little knot in the broken ends of the chair and fastened the necklace around my neck, tucking the pendant under my shirt. It was as good a hiding place as anywhere, and it felt right to have it close to my heart.

I carefully folded the note and slipped it into my pocket, then tossed the envelope into the trash as I headed for the front door. "I'm going to lunch," I called to Nikki as I left.

The day felt deceptively bright with my thoughts tangled in the shadows, still reeling from the arrival of the package and the questions it dragged in with it. I tried to distract myself, to focus on the weather — how the crisp, clear November air almost made the suffocating summer heat of the Eastern Shore feel like a fair trade.

The air was cool, the kind of chill that clung to your skin, tailor-made for sipping apple cider at an outdoor café. Soon enough, the café would retreat indoors, switching to hot cocoa behind its quaint, old storefront, but for now, the wrought iron tables still sat exposed in the plaza—cold, black circles under a blue sky that pretended nothing was wrong.

I stared at the steam rising from my mulled cider and let my mind wander as I waited for Caitlin. Who could have sent me the necklace? It couldn't be the killer. Why draw attention when they were well on their way to getting away with murder, assuming Joey was, in fact, killed. Did someone see what happened? And if so, then why didn't they just go to the police themselves? Could it be some sort of hoax?

I was pulled from my spiraling thoughts as Caitlin slid into the seat across from me, tossing a small purse on the table. I smiled a welcome, and hoped I didn't look as distracted as I felt. The necklace held a chokehold on me.

"Thanks for meeting me, Will." She was all business.

"Of course. Do you want a drink?" I gestured toward the cafe.

"I already ordered before I came over. You were zoned out."

"Ah, yeah. I guess I have a lot on my mind."

"Don't we all?" she said, her voice as dry as an unbuttered saltine. "Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. And honestly? It’s still hard to wrap my head around the fact that there’s a human being forming inside me right now. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel anything, really — just distant, like...an abstract idea I can’t quite believe is happening.

"I mean, I get it. Technically, it’s not even a baby yet. Just a fetus. Cells dividing. But even knowing that, it doesn’t feel like that either. I’ve watched the videos, read the timelines. I know where it’s supposed to be in its development. But I don’t feel excitement, or connection, or wonder, or whatever people are supposed to feel. Just this...deep sense of dread.

"Still... I keep thinking about what you said that night. That it’s not the baby’s fault I fucked Joey. That it shouldn’t have to pay for my mistake. I can’t shake that."

"Look, I shouldn't have said that stuff. This is your life, your body. I don't get a vote. I crossed a line."

"Maybe. I mean, yeah, you definitely did. But... I get it. You’d just dealt with Joey and his grossness. You were rattled. Emotions were high. So, fine. I’ll let it slide. But the thing is... I’m not sure you were entirely wrong."

"I...wasn't?"

"All I know is that I've never been more scared in my entire life. I don't know anything about babies. I don't think I have a maternal bone in my body. My biggest focus right now is finishing school, because, whether I keep this thing or not, I will build a better life than the one I had. My mother was a single teen mom, and I've spent my entire life determined not to repeat her mistakes." She paused, then added, more softly, "But maybe... maybe this kid deserves a shot, too."

"So...what does that mean? You're keeping the baby?"

"I don't know yet. But I'm not going through with the abortion. At least, not right now."

A waiter approached just then carrying a steaming mug on a saucer. He placed it in front of Caitlin and headed back inside.

I waited until he was gone to ask, "Are you sure?"

"No. But it's also not an impulsive decision. I stopped smoking the night we talked, the night Joey died. I just..." She stopped and took a sip of her drink. "None of that matters, really. I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. The whole reason I wanted to talk to you today was to tell you I don't expect you to help me with the baby. This is my responsibility. I know the offer was made in the heat of the moment, and you hadn't even considered what it—"

I broke in, "What about adoption?"

She blinked and sat her cup down with a clatter, sloshing a little of the frothy coffee drink over the side. "What about it?"

"Couldn't you just put the baby up for adoption?"

A flash of emotion crossed her face so quickly I didn't have time to identify it. Agitation? Surprise? Uncertainty?

"I... I haven't considered it," she said.

"Why not? Wouldn't that solve a lot of your problems?"

"It would also create new ones. Dealing with the adoptive parents, going through nine months of pregnancy just to hand over the baby, living for the rest of my life knowing I had a child out there somewhere who would, no doubt, be curious about me and could show up at any minute? No thanks. If I carry the baby to term, I'm keeping it."

I nodded. "Fair enough. I figured it was worth asking."

"Well, thanks for covering all the bases, I guess. And for meeting me. You seem like a good egg."

"Hold on. You're right. When I made that offer to help you, it was in the heat of the moment, but I've had a lot of time to think about it since, and, well, the offer is still on the table."

"What exactly are you offering here?"

"I don't know. Do you have anyone else? Have you told your family?"

She shook her head. "No. It's just me."

"Then I guess, I'm here for whatever you need. Somebody to go with you to doctor's appointments, a Lamaze coach, a shoulder to cry on, a babysitter once the baby is born — you set the boundaries, and I'll respect them. I just... I'd really like to be a part of the baby's life."

Her eyes narrowed as she considered my offer. "Babies are expensive and money is already tight between tuition and rent. What about monetary help?"

"I'll do what I can. I don't have much money right now, but I might have more soon. I have a show soon—"

"A show?"

"An art show. I'm an artist. I thought I mentioned that."

"You said you worked at a gallery but I don't think you mentioned that you're an artist. Or, if you did, it didn't stick. Baby brain. So is this like your own show?"

"Something like that," I mumbled. I could feel my face heating up. "I just started working at the art gallery here on the plaza, but hey've already sold a few of my paintings."

"That's pretty cool. I'd love to see some of your work."

"They're all at my apartment right now. They haven't been framed or anything yet, so they're not that impressive, but why don't you come for dinner one night this week? That way you can meet my roommate Aidan."

"Why would I need to meet your roommate?"

"Well, you know, just in case you keep the baby. You'd be seeing a lot of him."

"Why? Are you two a couple?"

"No, just friends," I said quickly, maybe a bit too quickly.

Caitlin gave me a suspicious look, as if she weren't convinced.

She studied me for a second, then said, "I still don't get why you're doing this."

I struggled for a moment before I could find the right words. "I, um... I guess this baby is all I have left of Joey now," I said at last. "He meant a lot to me. He was like a brother to me. I don't remember a time without him in my life, sticking up for me, pushing me out of my comfort zone. Even though things went bad at the end, it doesn't change everything that came before."

She shook her head. "That sounds nice, but how do I know you're not just saying all this to relieve some overactive sense of obligation and then when I actually need you — poof, you're gone? My past experiences with guys have been pretty consistent. Let's just say I haven't found them to be the most reliable of all God's creations."

"I give you my word."

"No offense, but I don't even know you. That's not worth all that much to me."

I shrugged. "I don't know what else to tell you."

She shrugged too. "I guess you'll just have to prove yourself. Until then, I'm not expecting much."

"Do you have a doctor?"

"Sort of. I'm going to Planned Parenthood. In fact, I have an appointment later this afternoon."

"For an abortion?" I asked, aghast.

"It's just a check up. I haven't scheduled the abortion yet."

"But don't they just do abortions?" That's what I'd always heard at church.

Caitlin rolled her eyes. "No, they offer all kinds of healthcare for women. Abortions are just a tiny fraction of what they do. If I tell them I've changed my mind about the abortion, I'll just continue with the neonatal stuff."

"And you'll let me know what you decide?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, by all means, you'll be the first to know." Her tone was sarcastic, but I chose to take it at face value.

She picked up her purse and started rummaging through it.

"Let me get it," I said, pulling out my wallet.

"Starting already, Uncle Will?" she said with a wry smile.

"I guess so."

"If you insist." She stood up, but forgot to close her purse first. Her wallet and a tube of lipstick fell out onto the ground. I quickly bent to pick them up for her. As I did, Joey's necklace slipped out of my shirt and swung out in plain view. I'd somehow managed to forget all about it during our conversation.

Caitlin's gaze was glued to the charm as I straightened up. I quickly stuffed it back under my shirt.

"Joey had a necklace like that," she said sharply, her eyes narrowed again — this time with suspicion.

"It is Joey's," I told her. "Or I guess it was his. Someone...gave it to me after he died." It was the truth, just not the whole truth.

She stared at my neck where the chain was still visible for a moment longer, then dragged her eyes back up to meet mine. "Anyway, what night do you want me to come over for dinner?"

"How about Wednesday?"

"Sounds good. See you then."

I watched her as she walked off down the plaza. You would never have known she was pregnant. I wondered when you started showing. I made a mental note to do some research about pregnancy when I got home. I'd better start reading up on the subject if I was going to be a good uncle.

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