The Truth of Yesterday
Book 4 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 14
What had just happened?
Had I somehow experienced Paul’s attack? Were my gifts manifesting again?
The thought that I might have actually felt Paul dying — not just imagined it, but physically and viscerally felt it — made my stomach churn. But to what end? The police had already determined he’d been strangled. I didn’t need a front-row seat in some psychic horror show to confirm that.
So what was the point? What was I supposed to learn from this...replay?
Maybe nothing. Maybe there was no point. Maybe the so-called “gift” didn’t come with neat little takeaways or clues wrapped in a bow. Maybe sometimes it just was — chaotic, uncontrolled, and terrifying.
Still, the experience had made one thing crystal clear: I needed to talk to Judy. Soon. Whether I liked it or not, this ability — this curse, this whatever — it wasn’t going away. I needed training and I needed it now.
A soft, frightened sound pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts.
Sabrina whimpered. “We should leave,” she said, edging back toward the living room, her eyes fixed on me like I might suddenly sprout fangs and start speaking in tongues.
I nodded numbly, ready to follow — until I wasn’t.
Before I’d taken two full steps, a strange sensation swept over me. It was like an invisible rope had looped around my chest and was gently, insistently tugging me back toward the bedroom. Not physical exactly — more like a psychic current pulling me backward.
I stopped, turned slowly, and faced the dark doorway again. The pull intensified.
“What are you doing?” Sabrina’s voice wavered. “Killian...don’t.”
“I...” My voice was barely above a whisper. “I have to go in there.”
“No! You can’t!”
“I need to.”
She backed up farther. “I’m not going with you.”
“That’s fine. Stay here.”
I stepped through the threshold.
The light from the living room spilled behind me, but as I entered, it felt like I’d passed through a veil. My body cast a long shadow, plunging the rest of the room into gloom. The air changed — thicker, colder, charged.
It wasn’t just darkness. The shadows felt alive, as if something unseen stirred just beyond my vision. And in the depths of those shadows was pain. Sorrow. Panic. A psychic scream still echoing against the walls.
I stopped, rooted to the spot. It was like hitting an emotional wall. My body refused to move forward. My legs trembled.
And then, without thinking, I reached toward the wall behind the tall armoire. My fingers slipped behind it with unerring precision and flipped the switch.
The overhead light flared on.
I didn’t even wonder how I knew where it was. Somehow, I just did.
As the room filled with light, the heavy, suffocating weight lifted — like a tide receding. The feeling of death receded too, but not completely. It still hovered at the edges, like something half-seen in a mirror.
The bedroom, in sharp contrast to the rest of the apartment, was pristine. Tidy. It looked almost untouched. For a moment, I thought maybe the intruder had spared this room. Then I realized that no, it had to have been cleaned. Cleared for evidence.
Even as the idea formed, my knees buckled slightly, and the room shimmered, like a heat mirage. The clean surfaces blurred, then doubled. Overlaid across the neat bed and dusted dressers was a second image — fainter, flickering. A psychic double exposure.
I stood in two versions of the room at once: the orderly version the police had left behind, and the real one — the one Razi had found.
Drawers had been ripped out, their contents dumped in chaotic piles. Clothes were strewn everywhere, tangled and tossed. The mattress had been yanked half off the box spring. A shattered lamp lay beside the overturned nightstand, ceramic shards glittering. I noticed a scattering of coin holders — white cardboard squares with shiny bits inside, flung across the floor like forgotten toys.
And in the middle of it all — on the exact spot where I was standing — was a body.
Paul.
Or at least, what was left of him.
He lay half-in, half-out of the bedroom, his legs sprawled toward the living room, his upper body twisted unnaturally. His face was contorted in a rictus of pain and terror.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Even in death, he radiated agony.
This wasn’t just a memory. It was an imprint. A moment so charged, so violent, it had burned itself into the walls, into the very air of this place.
And now, it had found me.
I closed my eyes, tried to slow my breathing. It wasn’t real. Not anymore.
But the pain in my chest told me otherwise.
And this time, it wasn’t mine.
When I reopened my eye, the ghost image was gone, the room back to normal. I sighed. Just what I needed: yet another demonstration of my gifts.
I'd deal with that later.
Focus.
I crept into the bedroom, each step slow and deliberate, skirting the area where Paul’s body had once lain. I was certain the police had already combed through every inch. So why did I feel this invisible tug, drawing me back here? What was I expecting to find?
Or worse — who was I expecting?
A chill ran through me.
“What?” I rasped aloud, my voice foreign to my own ears. “What am I supposed to see? Why bring me here?”
Silence.
I took another cautious step, glancing around the quiet room. “Look, Paul...or whoever you are. If you want me to understand why I’m here, what this is, you’re going to have to give me something.”
Still nothing. I was just beginning to feel absurd, muttering to shadows in an empty room, when I heard it: the faintest sound, barely more than a whisper. A delicate rustling, like paper sliding across paper.
I froze.
I turned slowly toward the armoire beside the door.
It stood like a sentry — tall and old. The inlaid wood was polished to a soft sheen, its crown molding nearly brushing the ceiling. It looked impossibly heavy, the kind of furniture that outlives its owners. I couldn't imagine what a bear it must have been to move.
I approached warily, hand outstretched, and opened the double doors.
Empty.
A frown tugged at my brow. Nothing inside. No clothes. Just empty space.
Then the sound came again — clearer now, just above me.
I tilted my head. It was coming from the top of the armoire.
Of course.
I stepped back, scanning the room. Nothing here tall enough to stand on. I sighed and retreated to the living room.
Sabrina looked up, arms crossed, eyes sharp with impatience.
“What are you doing now?”
“Is there anything I can stand on?” I asked.
She raised a skeptical brow. “I’ve got a step stool in my apartment.”
“Could I borrow it?”
She hesitated, then exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Sure. Why not? Anything to get this over with.”
She disappeared out the door and returned a moment later, carrying a small folding step ladder.
“Perfect. Thanks.” I offered a tight smile and headed back to the bedroom.
Climbing the steps, I finally got a view of the top of the armoire — and immediately noticed how spotless it was. No dust, no cobwebs. Paul must have been a meticulous housekeeper.
The top had a slight lip around the edge, maybe two inches tall, forming a shallow tray. On each side, a small block of wood — about one-by-three inches — was affixed. It didn’t make sense. They weren’t decorative. They weren’t structural.
Almost like handles.
It was like a light flicked on in my brain. I suddenly remembered something Steve had said back when he and Adam were hunting for antiques for the bed and breakfast. Some old furniture, he’d explained, was designed with hidden compartments: desks with secret drawers, chests with false bottoms, and — most relevant to me now — armoires with concealed tops.
I grabbed the wooden blocks and lifted.
It took a bit of effort, but slowly — inch by inch — the top panel of the armoire began to slide upward. Once it started, it moved with surprising smoothness, opening to reveal a hidden compartment.
Underneath the false top was a shallow, four-inch-deep cavity — cleverly camouflaged to blend seamlessly into the cabinet’s construction. You’d never notice the subtle difference between the inside and the outside unless you were specifically looking for it.
Inside was a single, letter-sized envelope.
That was it.
No bundles of cash. No flash drive. Just a lone envelope, resting precisely in the center of the hidden compartment, as if it had been waiting.
If Paul had hidden it here, it must have mattered.
I picked it up. The flap was tucked in but not sealed. When I lifted it open, a small key slid out and bounced softly on the carpet at my feet.
I hopped down to retrieve it and held it up. It was small — maybe for a drawer or a lockbox — silver, with an unusual, almost old-fashioned shape. No logo. No numbers. No clue what it opened.
Brow furrowed, I turned back to the envelope. Inside was a single handwritten sheet, dated a little over a month ago.
I never thought when I bought this armoire that I'd have any use for the secret compartment on top—and up to a few weeks ago, I didn’t. If you’ve found this, then one of two things has happened. Either you were looking for it — congratulations — or I’m not around anymore and you’re probably the new owner of this beautiful piece of furniture. If it’s the latter, feel free to throw this away. It’s no longer of any use to me.
If it’s the former...then you’ve got what you wanted. I hope you’re happy.
Sincerely,
Paul Flynn
A chill moved up my spine.
It wasn’t a suicide note, not exactly, but it read like someone who thought they might not be around much longer. And if that was the case...who had Paul been afraid of? What had he gotten himself into?
And, more importantly, what did this key unlock?
I stared at it again. Smooth. Cool. Nondescript. And utterly unhelpful.
There had been no locked drawers, no safes, no hidden compartments beyond the one I’d just opened. Had someone already taken whatever it went to? Had the killer found the match and just missed the key?
Or had Paul hidden that too?
“Killian?” Sabrina’s voice drifted in from the other room. “I think we’ve been here too long. We should go.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d lost track of time, and we were pushing our luck.
“Coming,” I called.
I hesitated one last moment, then folded the letter neatly and slid it back into the envelope. I slipped both the envelope and the key into my pocket, then replaced the hidden panel with care. Using my shirt, I gave the surface a quick but thorough wipe, focusing on any spots I might have touched. It was probably too little, too late, but a guy can hope.
Stepladder in hand, I returned to the living room.
Sabrina eyed me. “Did you find what you were searching for?”
I paused, then shook my head. “No luck.”
Her brow arched, unconvinced. “You were in there a long time. What exactly were you doing?”
“Just looking around,” I said with a shrug. “I thought you were ready to go.”
“I am. But you’re avoiding the question. Why did you need the ladder?”
I rolled my eyes. “I wanted to check the top of the armoire. It’s too tall for me to see up there without help. Okay? You want to make short jokes, go for it later. Right now, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Whether she bought it or not, she didn’t press. She crossed to the door, cracked it open, and peeked into the hallway. After a moment, she turned back and gave a nod. Coast clear.
We slipped out quietly, careful to leave everything just as we’d found it.
Back in the safety of her apartment, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. I turned to face her.
"I appreciate your help, Sabrina. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
Her face softened just a bit, though her arms remained crossed. “Yeah, well...I guess I owed it to Paul. Just don’t get caught. If you do, I was never there.”
“Understood,” I said.
"But...what happened to you?" She almost seemed as if she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.
"What do you mean?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You know what I mean. When you said you felt like you were being strangled. What was that?"
I shrugged, hoping I appeared nonchalant. I had avoided the subject while I searched the room and wasn't quite ready to tackle it there with Sabrina either.
"Are you some sort of psychic?"
"What? Why would you think that?" I asked, unnerved by her guess.
"It seems like the only explanation."
"Maybe I just have an overactive imagination."
"I saw you. You weren't imagining anything. You looked...you looked like you were being choked, except there was no one else there. Your face was so red and your eyes were bulging. It was terrifying."
A shiver raced up my spine. "I don't know what was going on, and I'm telling you the truth. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. I don't understand it any more than you do. I really appreciate your help, but I have to go."
She put a hand out and caught my arm as I turned to leave. "Can I at least have your number? In case something else turns up?"
I fished out a card and handed it to her. I knew it was unprofessional of me, but I wanted to put as much distance between myself and the whole unsettling experience as possible. I let myself out of Sabrina's apartment without another word.
I found Chris sitting in the stairwell, head propped on her hands, looking eminently bored. As I appeared at the top of the stairs, she glanced up, relief written plainly on her face. I expected to hear recriminations about taking so long, but before I could say a word, she bounced to her feet. "I'm so sorry."
I was confused. "Sorry for what?"
"I was so busy watching the stairs it never occurred to me that someone would come out of their apartment and ambush you. When I saw the gun I almost shit my pants."
I gave a halfhearted chuckle. "You and me both. It turned out to be a fake, though."
"Fake gun? That seems dangerous."
"That's what I said. Anyway, her name is Sabrina, and she was Paul's neighbor and friend."
"Great. So she was helpful?"
"Yes and no."
"Explain, please."
"She didn't have much to offer, but I found something in Paul's apartment. He wrote a letter and hid it with a key. The way the killer tore the place to pieces, it seems obvious he was looking for something. I have a feeling it was that key."
"But the killer didn't find it. You did."
"It was very well hidden."
"If it was so well hidden, how did you find it when you were only in there for, what? Like fifteen minutes? Where was it?"
"Um...in a secret compartment on top of an armoire."
"An arm what?"
"It's a big piece of furniture, like a wardrobe. People kept their clothes in them before they started building closets."
"How in the world did you think to even look in there?"
"Just a hunch." I said, using her own words from earlier against her. "But the point is, I don't know what the key goes to."
"What about the chick with the gun?"
"Sabrina? What about her?"
"Would she know what the key is for?"
"I didn't tell her I found it."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I guess I felt that the fewer people who know the better. Besides, I'm not sure I trust her completely."
"Oh. Good point. So what did the key look like?"
I fished it out of my pocket and held it out in the palm of my hand.
The color drained from Chris's face. "Killian! You removed evidence from the scene of a crime."
"What was I supposed to do? How can I find out what the key goes to if I leave it in there?"
"We could have told the police and let them handle it. It is an ongoing murder investigation. Being in there in the first place is bad enough. Taking stuff is more than even I can get away with."
"Well, it's too late now. I already took it."
"You have to put it back."
"It's too risky. I'd have to explain to Sabrina why I was sneaking back in there without her and she's already suspicious of me as it is."
"Hello?" She leaned over and knocked lightly on my forehead. "Is anyone home in there? You've now tampered with evidence. That's a criminal offense. You have more to worry about than what Sabrina thinks of you. We have to let the police know about the letter and the key. What did the letter say, by the way?"
I reached into my pocket again, and Chris smacked her forehead. "Please tell me you didn't take that too."
I grinned sheepishly and produced the offending object.
Chris sighed heavily. "Holy fuck! What were you thinking?"
"I, uh...guess I wasn't."
"Clearly. We've got to get back in there now."
"And then what?"
"We call the police."
"And say what? 'Oh, by the way, I just happened to be snooping around Paul Flynn's pad today, and you won't believe what I found in the bedroom.'"
"It doesn't have to be like that. We can make an anonymous tip."
"Again...and say what?"
"We can say we're concerned friends who know Paul had a hidden compartment in his armoire-thingy. We can tell them we think there might be evidence in it. Or we can just let my dad know, and he can handle it."
"Then I'll never learn what the key is for."
"We can find out. My dad knows people."
I hated to admit it, but I was beginning to think she might be right. "Only one problem. Even if we tell the police, there's no guarantee they'll do anything. It's not like they've been exactly on the ball with this case. That's the whole reason I was hired in the first place."
"So what do you propose then?"
"I stick the letter and the key back in my pocket, find out what the key goes to, and take it from there."
"What about the police?"
"They don't know the key exists so it's not like they're looking for it. They missed it when they did their search."
"What if you turn up something that you can take to the police? How will you explain the key then?"
I thought for a minute. "I'll just tell them I was given the key with an anonymous tip."
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean you'll lie?"
"It's not a complete lie..."
She narrowed her eyes and gave me a stern look. "We're not done talking about your 'anonymous tipster,' but we can't stand here in the hallway all day. If we're done here, why don't you come back to my house with me? We can discuss this further there. My dad should be home from work soon."
"Actually, I should check in with some of the neighbors first, if that's okay."
She sighed. "Sure. I'll just wait here." She patted the wall. "I'm starting to really like hanging out in stairwells."
I laughed and returned to Paul's floor. Ignoring Sabrina's door, I went to the one directly across the hall. According to Sabrina, this was Mrs. Gupta's apartment. I knocked and waited a minute. When no one answered, I knocked again, a little louder this time, remembering that Mrs. Gupta was hearing impaired. I heard some shuffling through the door and, a few seconds later, the sounds of locks being undone.
The door swung open to reveal a bent, frail woman wearing a brightly colored sari. Her face was deeply creased, and her steel-gray hair was pulled back into a bun. Despite her age, her eyes were sharp and sparkling, and they quickly gave me a once-over. From her expression, it appeared she found me lacking.
"What do you want?" She had a heavy, melodic accent.
"I'm looking into Paul Flynn's murder." I spoke slowly and much louder than usual to be certain she would be able to hear me. I wasn't sure how deaf she was. "I'm hoping you can answer some questions for me."
Her frown deepened. "You do not have to yell. I have already talked to the police."
I lowered my voice sheepishly. "Yes, I know, but I've been hired by a concerned friend. Were you home the day Mr. Flynn was killed?"
She glared at me, and for a moment, I thought she was going to refuse to answer. "I do not get out much, so I'm sure I was."
"Did you hear anything unusual — loud crashes or shouting, perhaps?"
She shook her head. "I didn't hear anything. I probably had my TV on."
"And you didn't see anyone suspicious?"
"No. Nothing. I cannot help you." She shut the door.
I sighed and turned to the last door: Kent, the traveling businessman. If he was away as much as Sabrina said, I doubted he'd be home, but it was worth a knock.
As I suspected, no one answered. I pulled out a business card and jotted a quick note asking him to contact me at his earliest convenience, then stuck it in the door jamb.
I rejoined Chris in the stairwell. "Going down. This is the last one. I want to check the apartment under Paul's."
She grinned. "You know where to find me."
I knocked on the appropriate door — two firm raps, polite but audible. No answer.
I tried again, this time with a little more force. Still nothing.
After waiting about a little longer, I gave it one final knock, slower and louder.
A few seconds later, the door of the neighboring unit flew open. A woman in a frumpy, ill-fitting gray pantsuit stepped into the hallway. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, with roots that hadn’t seen a touch-up in months and tired eyes that said she was already over this conversation.
“That one’s vacant,” she said, her tone tinged with annoyance, as if I’d interrupted something far more important than whatever I was doing.
“Oh,” I said, flashing a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know. Do you happen to know how long it’s been empty?”
She narrowed her eyes at me, clearly sizing me up. “Several weeks at least,” she said finally. “They were doing renovations after the last guy moved out. Had just about finished when the ceiling got water damage. Had to rip the whole thing out.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Why? You looking to rent?”
“No, no. I’m actually looking into the murder of Paul Flynn. He lived in the unit right above this one.”
Her expression shifted immediately — suspicion replaced by something colder. “Yeah, I know who he was,” she said. “You don’t have a murder in your building and not know about it. That water damage I mentioned? That came from the mess upstairs.”
“Right,” I said. “Makes sense. Well maybe you can help me."
She folded her arms. "What do you want from me?"
"I was just wondering if you were home the day when it happened.”
“I’m in and out. I’m a realtor. Why?”
“Did you hear anything from the apartment above you? Any loud crashes? Shouting? Breaking glass or dishes?”
She thought about it, lips pursing as her eyes flicked upward in memory. Then she shook her head. “Nope. Nothing like that.”
“Anything unusual at all?”
“Nothing I can think of.” A pause. “Look, are we done here? I’ve got a client to call back.”
“Yeah. That’s all. Thanks for your time.”
Without so much as a goodbye, she stepped back inside and shut the door behind her.
Another dead end.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the blank, silent hallway hoping the next person I talked to might actually be helpful.
I left to get Chris, but she met me halfway. "That didn't go so well."
I rolled my eyes. "Not at all. Complete waste of time. I guess we're done here. Until I can find out how to get in touch with Paul's family or the guy that owns the escort agency Paul worked for, I don't really have anywhere else to go."
"So we're off to see my dad?"
"Um, sure."
I was somewhat nervous. Chris's father sounded a little authoritarian, and authority figures tended to make me uncomfortable. My therapist would probably say it was leftover baggage from my father.
"Don't worry," she said, reading me like a book. "Dad's just a big teddy bear."
"Teddy bear. Right."
"Really. You'll see."
She looped her arm through mine and started dragging me down the stairs.
From the Metro station, it was a short trip to the neighborhood where she and her dad lived with her twelve-year-old brother. Her mom had passed away a few years previously from cancer, she'd told me on the ride. Their home was a two-story brownstone townhouse like the ones I'd seen in Paul's old neighborhood — perhaps not quite as nice, but still well-kept and very welcoming.
Chris let us in. "Dad?" she yelled at the top of her lungs.
While we waited for an answer, I took in the entryway. It was wainscoted in dark wood, whose rich patina could only have come from years of polishing. Above the paneling, the walls were painted white. A mirror hung over a small table by the door, and in the corner stood an old-fashioned, brass coat tree bearing an assortment of outerwear, including a police uniform jacket. A hallway laid with a carpet runner gave access to the rear of the house. A staircase led up to the second floor. Doors opened to the right and left at the front of the hall and again farther down.
"In here," a man replied from the room to our left.
Chris stuck her head in. "I have Killian with me."
"Well, don't make him stand in the hall. Come on in and have a seat."
"I didn't want to interrupt you if you were busy," she said as she entered the room, motioning me to follow.
Louis Silver's den was cozy if a bit shabby. A ratty old sofa faced a big-screen TV, while an equally beat-up recliner stood off to one side.
Chris's father sat at a large wooden desk against the front wall, under the window overlooking the street. He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered with the beginnings of a beer belly. His short dark hair was peppered with gray, and his pale blue eyes seemed tired but kind. He pushed away a stack of papers and smiled a warm greeting in my direction.
"I welcome the interruption. The problem with being a policeman is there's too much damn paperwork. You must be Killian."
I shook his outstretched hand and smiled in return. "Yes, sir. And trust me, Mr. Silver, there's plenty of paperwork in the private-investigator business too."
He laughed. "I don't doubt it. And none of this 'Mr. Silver' business. Call me Lou. Have a seat."
I sat next to Chris on the sofa.
"So how'd the first day on the case go, Christina?"
"It went okay, I guess. I mostly just stood around waiting."
He smiled indulgently. "I told you most investigative work is hurry up and wait."
I almost laughed at how much he sounded like Novak when he said that.
Chris continued, "Still, Killian learned quite a bit, so it was worth it."
"I couldn't have done without you," I hastened to assure her. "You were a huge help."
She laughed. "I don't know about that, but thanks."
Lou turned his attention to me. "Now, this isn't my case, so I don't know much more than you do, but I did talk to a couple people closer to the investigation after I talked to Shane. They don't have any solid leads and no real viable suspects. Sounds like the place was pretty thoroughly trashed so there's not much in the way of evidence, but they're still waiting on a few tests, fingernail swabs, etc. They didn't seem too confident. Why don't you fill me in on what you found out today?"
I quickly sketched out the details for him, including my interviews that day — leaving out, of course, my search of the apartment and finding the key and letter.
When I finished, he nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like you're doing a good job. You got more out of that Razi character than our boys, although that's not surprising that he wouldn't be chatty with the cops. That's not at all said to diminish your accomplishments. Shane was right about you." His face suddenly creased into a big smile. "So how is old Shane Novak these days?"
"He's good."
"Is he keeping busy?"
"Busier than he'd like, according to him, but in all honesty, I don't think he'd have it any other way."
He laughed. "You're right about that. He was one hell of a cop. You've got a good teacher when it comes to learning the investigative process."
"You don't have to tell me."
"How about the home front? Has he moved on after his wife's death?"
"You're one to talk, Dad," Chris said.
"Hush," he said, but his eyes were warm. "That's my business. I'm prying into Shane's right now."
I laughed. "I don't think he'd mind. He's been dating someone for a little while now. Her name is Judy."
"Have you met her?"
"Oh, yes. I introduced them."
"She's a good woman?"
"The best."
"Good for him. He deserves it."
"If the inquisition is over," Chris said, "I'd better show Killian how to find his car so he can head home. He has a long drive."
"You're welcome to stay here tonight," Lou offered.
"I appreciate that, but I'd really like to get back."
"The offer stands anytime you need it. Shane says you're a fine young man, and that's all the recommendation I need."
I blushed at the compliment and nodded awkwardly. Chris saved me from further embarrassment by grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door.
"It was nice to meet you," I called out at the last minute as I remembered my manners.
"You too, Killian," he called back.
Just as we were walking out the door, a skinny kid with dark hair and eyes exactly like Chris's came down the hall.
"Hey, Chris," he said, eying me over.
Chris stopped with a small sigh. "Hello, Kevin. I don't have time to talk right now. We have to go."
"You aren't even going to introduce me?"
"Kevin, Killian. Killian, Kevin."
"Is he your boyfriend?" Kevin asked in that annoying singsong voice kids use. "What happened? Decide to switch teams?"
Chris merely dragged me out and shut the door firmly behind us.
"That was my twerpy little brother," she said in an aggrieved tone.
"Hey, I have one too. I can't tell you how many times he's embarrassed me in front of people. And it's usually at the door too."
She laughed. "He's not so bad, really. It was hard on him when Mom died."
"I'm sure it was hard on all of you."
She shrugged. "I was prepared — or as prepared as you can be for something like that. She'd suffered a long time. At least she's not suffering now."
I nodded, and we walked the rest of the way to the station in silence. When I turned and prepared to say goodbye, Chris surprised me by inserting money into the fare-card machine.
"What are you doing? I can find my own way now. You don't have to come with me."
"I know I don't have to. I want to. I have a few questions for you."
"What kind of questions?" I had a sinking feeling I already knew the answer.
She finished getting her fare card before facing me with a look of resolve. "Earlier today we both agreed we couldn't be partners unless we were honest with each other. You avoided the issue when I asked earlier, but now I want to know about this help you got finding the key — and you're going to tell me the whole story if you want me to keep working with you."
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