All Lost Things

Book 3 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries

By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026

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Chapter 10

Novak was sitting at my desk when I entered the office the next morning. I was surprised to see him, considering that I'd had to use my key to open the door, which was usually unlocked if Novak was in.

He tapped a long, skinny cardboard box sitting on the desk. "If you're going to be going around asking questions, these might come in handy."

"What is it?"

"Open it and see."

I lifted the lid to find the box filled with business cards. I gave Novak a confused look before sliding one out.

"Oh, wow," I breathed. My name was printed in bold in the center of the card and under it, the words Novak Investigations and the office phone number.

Novak grinned. "I thought you might like them. I kept them simple since you're not officially a private investigator yet."

"Thank you."

"No problem." He stood up and gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Like I said, you're doing a good job so far. Oh, after you check the messages and do whatever it is you do in the mornings, come on into my office so we can plan our day."

I nodded before sitting down and turning on my computer. I was pleased with Novak's approval and thrilled with the business cards. They made me feel so grown up. I slipped several into my wallet and stored the box in my top drawer.

After checking the voicemail messages and our email account, I stuck my head into Novak's doorway. "Is now a good time?"

He looked up from the file he was reading and gestured towards my usual seat. "After you left last night, I thought of another person we should add to our list of suspects."

"Who?"

"You tell me."

"I have no idea."

"Think. There is one person we haven't given due consideration in our investigation thus far."

I racked my brain but came up empty. "I can't think of anyone."

"Here's a clue: it's someone we both overlooked because we accepted something Caleb told us without checking the veracity of his statement."

"Can't you just tell me?"

"Come on! Use your little gray cells, as Poirot would say."

I was getting a little annoyed with Novak's game. "We've talked to every single person we know of who could possibly have any bearing on the case, with the exception of this mystery guy who Caleb may or may not have been banging in the barn. But we can't have overlooked him, we don't even know who he is."

"Ever so eloquently phrased," he drawled, "but wrong nonetheless."

"We can't talk to Ira. He's dead!"

"You're getting warmer."

"Are we going to hold a séance?"

"No. The person I'm talking about isn't necessarily dead, although we've been led to believe he or she is."

"Caleb's mother?"

"Finally. I thought I was going to have to draw you a picture. Yes, I'm referring to Rachel Cohen, the wife of the late Ira Cohen and Caleb's mother."

"But Caleb said she was dead. Why would he lie to us about that?"

"Maybe he doesn't know he's lying."

"Huh?"

"Are you always this slow, or are you just having a bad day?"

I rolled my eyes and grinned. "Can we quit with the insults already?"

Novak heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fine, but I hope you realize you are ruining my fun. Ira Cohen told his young son that his mother had passed away, but we really only have Ira's word for that — and we know he wasn't exactly the most trustworthy individual."

"If she's alive, then where has she been all this time?"

"Aha! It would behoove us to find that out, wouldn't it?"

"Behoove?"

"Do I have to add the dictionary to your ever-growing list of assigned reading?"

"I thought we were done with the insults. I know what the word means, I just can't believe you used it in a sentence. Do you know she's alive, or is this just one of your hunches?"

"I don't know anything for sure; it's just a little idea that occurred to me last night. What would you suggest we do next?"

I thought for a minute before answering. I'd been zinged enough for one day and wanted to make sure I got the answer to his pop quiz right this time.

"Well, as I see it, there are three avenues we ought to follow." Novak's eyebrows arched slightly. "We need to check up on Paige and Travis Haynes, find out why Travis got so defensive when I brought up children. We also need to keep digging into Caleb's mystery guest. Is he a suspect or possibly an alibi for Caleb? And third, we need to find out if Rachel Cohen is alive or dead, and what happened to her either way."

He nodded approvingly. "Surprisingly sound thinking."

"I'm not finished," I added quickly. "We can't rule out Nadine. Just because we know she left hours before Ira was killed doesn't mean she couldn't have gone back later and made firewood out of him."

With a proud smile, he began to applaud. "There's the deviously brilliant mind I knew existed in that pretty little head of yours."

I batted my eyes, "So you think I'm pretty?"

He ignored me. "So which of those avenues do you wish to explore next?"

I considered my choices. "I want to question Caleb again."

"And ask him what?"

"For one, who was he meeting in the barn loft?"

"An excellent question, although one I doubt he'll be too eager to answer. I'll call Kaplan and see if he can set up a meeting this afternoon."

"Why can't I go now?"

"Because I have other cases, you know — paying ones that fund your exorbitant salary."

I chuckled. "Burger flippers at Mickey D's make more than I do."

"But they don't get the glamour and excitement of being a P.I.," he teased. "Speaking of which, those reports aren't going to type themselves."

I dutifully returned to my desk feeling more than a little anxious about my coming talk with Caleb. The paperwork felt even more tedious than usual, my mind stubbornly locked on the case. Of everyone involved, Caleb fascinated me the most. He was at the heart of it all, yet we knew so little about him. What drove him? Could he really have murdered his father in cold blood?

I could barely wait to see him.

For my second visit ever to the Juvenile Detention Center, I went alone. Kaplan had called ahead, so it was surprisingly easy for me to see Caleb. All I had to do was tell them who I wanted to see and sign in.

Once again, a guard led me to the unwelcoming cinder block and metal visiting room. This time, I arrived before Caleb. I sat down on one of the cold metal chairs and waited. It was about ten minutes before Caleb made his appearance, looking sullen and pale. He seemed surprised to see me. A greenish purple bruise surrounded his left eye, and his lower lip was swollen and split.

I gasped. "Wow, you look like hell!"

"Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a guy feel special," he growled sourly. He slouched down in the chair across from me. It was pretty clear he didn't want to talk to me.

"Did they do anything to the guys who beat the shit out of you?"

"Are you kidding? Nobody gives a damn. I'm just a fucking faggot who chopped his dad up with an ax."

"Did you?"

He cocked his head to one side. "Did I what?"

"Did you chop your dad up with an ax?"

He sat for a minute without moving. I held my breath, and the only sound was the suddenly loud ticking of the clock on the wall. Then he calmly stood up and started for the door.

"Caleb, wait!" I called. "I need to hear your answer. Please."

He stood for another few seconds with his back to me, then slowly turned around and came back. He planted his hands on the metal table and leaned in.

"I was five years old when my mom died. I don't really remember her." His raspy voice was so low that I could barely make out his words. "My first clear memory is of my dad getting mad at me because I'd spilled a glass of juice. He hit me so hard I flew all the way across the room. For years, I lived never knowing what I would do that would earn me my next beating. His excuses started getting weaker and weaker, until he didn't need any reason at all. It was a complimentary gift. 'Thanks for staying; here's your beating.' Do you have any idea what it's like to live your whole life — twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year — in constant fear? Never knowing when you would turn around and get the shit beat out of you for no reason?

"For a long time I hoped — I prayed — that someone — anyone — would do something — anything — to get me out of there. 'Just make it stop,' I'd beg God. It didn't take too long to realize that nobody was going to do anything. Nobody cared, and God doesn't exist. I was on my own.

"I started working to get myself out of there as soon as possible. I thought if I could just make it to graduation, I could get a scholarship and go away. I worked my ass off to get straight A's. You'd think he'd be proud of me for that at least, wouldn't you? Well, he wasn't. He resented me, said I thought I was better than he was. So he beat me more. The only way I could avoid the beatings was to avoid him. You can only hide so long before you have to come out for food or to go to the bathroom. He'd be waiting. And then it would be even worse, like he'd been saving it up.

"You want to know if I chopped my dad into little pieces and roasted him like a pig? God, I fantasized about killing him a million times. I killed him over and over again, a different way each time. It was like a game: How Many Ways Can I Kill Daddy? Sometimes I'd finish him off fast, just to get him out of my life, but sometimes I'd drag it out, torture him until he begged me to kill him. But you know what? When it came down to it, I never did anything except hide and take the beatings. You wanna know why? Because I'm a pussy — a weak, scared, worthless piece of shit. I don't know who killed my father and I don't really give a damn, but I wish to hell I had done it."

He slumped back against the wall and slowly slid down to the concrete floor, his chest heaving and his eyes shining with hatred and pain.

I sat for a minute, trying to catch my breath. I'd never been in the presence of such intense emotion, not even when I had been face-to-face with the guy who wanted to kill me. Insanity is different from pure hatred. I didn't believe Caleb was evil, just horribly damaged.

"I...I don't know what to say."

Caleb's eyes slowly closed, releasing me from the pull of his gaze. "There's nothing to say. That's my life, shitty as it is. I'm a worthless punching bag and that's all I'll ever be."

"You're not worthless! Your dad is gone now. The abuse is behind you." I was suddenly desperate for him to believe it, to believe it myself.

His eyes opened again, but the hatred was gone, leaving only the pain. "Behind me?" He touched the bruise on his face. "It'll never be behind me." There was a quiet finality in his voice, as if this was something he'd accepted.

"You can move on. I'm going to get you out of here."

"And then what? You'll whisk me off to Never Never Land where I can live with the other Lost Boys? You'll kiss my booboos and make them all better? It doesn't work like that in the real world, Killian. Thanks anyway, though."

"So you'd rather stay in jail for something you didn't do?"

He gave me a strange look that I couldn't decipher. "What are my options? One foster home after another until I get kicked out of the system at eighteen? I'll just be another statistic."

"You don't know that. It could be different for you."

"And I suppose you're going to help me?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I'm going to find out who killed your father."

"Good luck. The police seem pretty damn sure it was me."

"We'll find you an alibi."

His eyes skittered away. "I told you I don't have one."

"Then we find the real killer."

"And then we'll spin straw into gold."

"God, you've got a shitty attitude. I'm trying to help here."

He slumped a little lower. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Good. How about you answer a few questions?"

"Like what?"

I took a deep breath and decided to start with an easy question first. "What was your relationship like with Travis and Paige Haynes?"

He frowned. "They're real nice, why?"

"Were they protective of you?"

"What do you mean protective? They did their best to watch out for me. There wasn't much they could do. They're the only adults who ever gave a damn about me. They would have let me stay with them, but Dad knew they helped me. That was always the first place he looked."

"So what did they do for you?"

"Paige gave me food sometimes. Dad wasn't much on grocery shopping, and I never had any money. Travis talked to me a lot. They even gave me a Christmas present last year, a sleeping bag."

"Is that the one you kept in the barn loft?" His eyes narrowed, but he didn't answer. "I found it. I've been up there." Still no response. "I found the magazine, too, and the lube. Oh yeah, and the condoms. So what were they for, anyway? Were you meeting someone out there?"

He glared at me silently.

"Look, Caleb, I know you hid out in the barn. I can't say I blame you. I also know you met someone out there fairly regularly. I need to know who it was."

"There wasn't anyone." He spoke through clenched teeth.

"We know there was. He was seen climbing into the barn after you."

"There wasn't anyone," he repeated stubbornly.

"Caleb, this could be important. We need to talk to everyone involved. Maybe this person can give you an alibi. We could get you out of here."

"Find another way."

"Caleb, you're not being reasonable. We need to talk to this guy."

"I told you, there isn't any guy."

"I found a used condom! I guess you used it with yourself?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"This is crazy! How can I help you if you won't help me?"

"Then don't help me. It wasn't my idea anyway. Take it up with Asher." He stood up and walked to the door, pounding on it. "We're done here."

"Caleb, please. How can I trust you if you won't tell me the truth?"

"I guess you can't," he replied softly as the guard opened the door. He walked out, and the door slammed shut with an echoing crash.

I was very discouraged after my disastrous interview with Caleb. Not only had I failed to learn anything of significance, I had angered him to the point that he had walked out on me. I dreaded telling Novak of my ineptitude, but, to my surprise, he was very understanding.

"It happens to the best of us, kid," he assured me. "It's not your fault that he refuses to help us. It just makes me wonder what he's hiding."

"Do you think he's protecting someone?"

"Either that or he's guilty as hell."

I was driving home when I had one of my sudden brainstorms. I turned in the direction of my old neighborhood. A few minutes later, I pulled into Asher's driveway and jumped out of the car.

I hadn't spoken to Asher since the day Novak agreed to take the case. When I had last seen him, he'd been pretty upset that Caleb hadn't mentioned his other friend. I was pretty sure Asher wouldn't be any happier about the news that Caleb had been secretly meeting some guy in the barn. I'd have to tread carefully, but I needed to find how much Asher knew. He might have spoken to Caleb.

Besides, I told myself, Asher deserves to know the truth.

Asher answered the door. Although I couldn't read his expression, he didn't seem overly excited to see me.

"Hi," was all he said.

"Hey. There've been some developments with Caleb's case. Can we talk for a minute?"

He nodded and stepped outside. He walked into the backyard, where he sat down at the picnic table. I followed and took a seat next to him. "Have you gotten in to see Caleb yet?"

He shook his head. "Nope. I've been to the detention center twice. They keep saying I'm not on his approved list, but they won't tell me how to get on it."

"I'll see what I can do. Maybe Sergeant Kaplan can get you added."

He glanced over at me. "Have you seen Caleb again?"

"Yeah. I was there this afternoon."

"How is he?"

"Uh, not so good actually. He has a black eye and a busted lip."

Asher's shoulders rose up as he visibly tensed. "And I bet nothing is being done about it."

I shrugged. "From what he said, no, nothing is being done."

"God! Can't you do something to get him out?"

"I'm trying, but he's not helping."

"What do you mean?"

"He won't tell me anything. He still won't say who he stayed with after he ran away, and now he won't tell me who he was meeting in the barn."

"Meeting in the barn? What do you mean?"

"I, um, found out that Caleb was meeting someone in the barn behind his house."

Asher shook his head in confusion. "How did you find that out?"

"Well, first I found his hideout in the loft. There were some, uh, signs that he wasn't always alone up there."

"What signs?"

"There were...condoms."

"So? That doesn't mean anything."

"Used condoms."

Asher's jaw tightened.

"A neighbor confirmed that she often saw him sneak out to the barn, and soon after someone else would slip in to join him. She said it looked like a boy."

"Why did you tell me that?" Asher was staring at the tabletop, his hands balled into fists at his side.

"What?"

He still wouldn't look at me. "Did you come here just to rub it in?"

"Asher...No! I was hoping you'd talked to Caleb and he'd told you something. This mystery guy could be important. Maybe it's the same person Caleb stayed with when he ran away."

"I think you just wanted me to know that Caleb was having sex with someone."

"What? No! Why would I—"

I reached out to touch his arm, but he leapt to his feet and turned towards me. "You just can't stand it that I've moved on, can you?"

"Huh?" I stood up too. This wasn't going well.

"You don't want me, but nobody else can have me, either. Is that it?"

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to. You can just drop the whole 'injured innocence' act. And you can drop dead, too, while you're at it. I'm sorry I ever asked you to help."

"Asher, I—"

"Save it, Killian. Goodbye." He spun around and stormed into the house, leaving me gawking after him. How had things gone so wrong?

I am not having a good day, I reflected as I climbed back into my car.

I thought of a hundred different things I could have done differently, could have said to Asher. Unfortunately, I was lying on my bed later that night staring up at the ceiling when those pearls of wisdom occurred to me.

"Damn, damn, damn," I muttered to myself.

"There's more damning going on in here than at a Baptist tent meeting," Kane said from the doorway, causing me to jump.

I glared at him. "I didn't hear you come up the stairs. When did you get back anyway? I thought you were at your mom's."

"A week was plenty. I talked Mom into bringing me home early."

"Was it a bad visit?"

"Not bad, exactly, just...not great. I don't fit in there the way I used to. My old friends and I have grown apart. It's like I don't even know them anymore. Mom still treats me the same as she did when I was thirteen, and everything I look at in the old house just makes me think of Seth. Nothing feels like home. My life is here now, not there."

I nodded. "That makes sense."

He smiled, seemingly happy that I understood. He crossed the room and dropped onto his bed. "So...I'm just guessing here, but I'd say you seemed a little upset when I came in."

"I don't want to talk about it," I sighed.

"Come on, what's wrong? Is the case not going well?"

"As a matter of fact, the case isn't going anywhere, but that's not my biggest problem."

"Then what is?"

"Asher."

"Oh, guy trouble. Sorry, can't help you much there. I'm probably the only person in this house who can't."

"It's not like there's anything anyone can do anyway, including me."

"I thought you guys were done."

"I still don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

"I mean, he came to me and asked me to help Caleb. I didn't even want to do it! He talked me into it, then, when I start finding stuff he doesn't want to know, he gets mad at me."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it."

"It's not my fault Caleb was cheating on him. Can you believe Asher actually accused me of only telling him so that I could rub it in?"

"Um, did you?"

"Of course not!"

Kane shrugged. "Then what do you care what he thinks?"

"He actually said I was just jealous because he's moved on!"

"Are you?"

"No!"

"Okay then."

"Why would I be jealous of Caleb? He's a liar, a cheater, and possibly a murderer."

"So you don't care that Asher is dating someone else?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. Maybe a little."

"Maybe you need to move on too."

"I'm trying. It would be a whole lot easier if I hadn't taken Caleb's case. Then I wouldn't have to see Asher."

"So stop working on the case. It's not like you're getting paid."

"But...but..."

"But what?"

"I need to know what happened."

Kane rolled his eyes. "Then quit whining about it."

"I wasn't whining!"

"Trust me, you were."

"Just shut up."

"You're the one who said he didn't want to talk about it, then wouldn't stop talking about it."

"Well, I've stopped now."

Kane looked at me for a minute, then came over to my bed and sat down next to me. "Don't let this get to you, Killian. If it becomes too much, drop it. It's not worth the grief. I know I can be a smartass sometimes, but if you need to talk, I'm here for you."

I bit my lip, then sighed. "I'm okay. I just needed to vent. Thanks."

"Anytime, Whiny."

I hit him with my pillow.

"Okay, so we ran into a few dead ends yesterday," Novak said the next day as he paced back and forth in his office. "That just means we take a step back, regroup, and devise a new plan of attack."

"I'm a failure as a detective," I groaned.

I was slouched dejectedly on the odious sofa. Overcoming my irrational fear of the ugly piece of furniture had been my way of compensating for my lack of control over the case. At least that was how I diagnosed the situation.

"Oh, stop. So you hit a few walls. Deal with it. We can't get around the walls, so we'll just go over them, under them, or through them — whatever it takes."

"How do we do that?"

"That's not the most important consideration right now."

"So you don't know, either?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just saying that right now we've got more important walls to scale."

I let loose my frustration. "Why are we talking about walls so much? Are we construction workers now? Who's paying for all these walls?"

He threw me a deadly look and went on. "I have two possibly important pieces of information that we need to look into. After our talk yesterday morning, I did a little research into Travis and Paige Haynes. It seems my hunch was right. They have no children — or I should say they no longer have any children."

"No longer...you mean..."

"They had a son. He would have been ten this year. He died when he was two."

"Oh my God, that's horrible."

"It gets worse. Apparently he died from injuries resulting from physical abuse at his daycare center."

"Around here?"

"No. This all happened in New Jersey. The caregiver was convicted. They moved down here after the trial was over."

"I can't say I blame them for wanting to get away."

"And yet...did they really get away?"

"What do you mean?"

"They moved right next door to another child abuser."

The implications became clear. Travis and Paige Haynes suddenly had a very sound motive for murder.

"Yes indeed," Novak agreed as he read the dawning on my face.

"Do you think one of them killed Ira?"

"It's a possibility, but right now we don't have any evidence, only a guess. We don't know if they did anything except try to aid Caleb in any way they could. It certainly warrants more investigation, though."

"Paige Haynes already admitted they were home the night Ira was killed. That probably means they don't have an alibi."

"We should still check. Maybe they had company that would be able to vouch for their whereabouts on the night in question."

"So we should talk to them again?"

"I think it would be a good idea, and from the sound of things, maybe we'd better try for Mrs. Haynes."

"What about the other piece of information? You said there were two."

"Ah, yes. Rachel Cohen is not dead."

I sat up with sudden interest. "Way to bury the lead! You know for sure that she's alive?"

"Not for sure, no, but I think it's very likely she's still alive. I know someone who works at the county records office. They did a search for me and there are no deaths listed for a Rachel Cohen in the salient time period and no estate settlements."

"Couldn't she have died somewhere else?"

"Possibly, but if her husband was still living here, her will would have been settled here. Since there's no record of that, I suspect Mrs. Cohen is most decidedly among the living."

"Then where is she?"

"That's what I don't know."

"How do we find out?"

"The hard way, I'm afraid."

"What do you mean?"

"This is where things get tedious, and you're going to have to shoulder the bulk of the burden yourself. I have to concentrate on my paying clients. I'll help you out as much as possible, give you some tips and advice, but you're going to do all the work. It'll be great training for you. The best way to learn something is to just jump in and get your hands dirty."

I looked at him doubtfully. "What will I be doing exactly?"

"Research, mostly. Boring, dull, monotonous research. Basically, you'll be making lots and lots of phone calls. Talk to everyone who ever knew Rachel Cohen and find out everything they knew about her. Go door to door, if necessary. The trail is pretty cold so this won't be easy, especially if she doesn't want to be found. It's a safe bet she changed her name. I think we can also assume she hasn't been using any of her former ID cards, but I can check those avenues just to make sure."

"What do you mean?"

"Motor vehicle records, Social Security number — that sort of thing," Novak rattled off.

"We have her Social Security number?"

"Well, no, but if we're lucky it might be in the motor vehicle records."

"This sounds pretty hopeless."

"Oh, we'll find her. It may take a lot of work, and there's a chance it won't be of any relevance to the case. The question is, is it worth the effort?" He raised an eyebrow in question.

"What do I do first?"

"It would be nice if we knew her maiden name. I can probably pull that up online from vital records. Then I can start the process of searching for possible aliases using combinations of her first, middle, and maiden names. Statistically, that's what women use most often when they change their identities. Of course, she may have changed it to something completely different, in which case we'll come up with zip. Meanwhile, why don't you head over to the newspaper office and see if you can talk to the reporter who's covering the Cohen case. No sense going over the same territory twice. There's a chance he's already looked into the former Mrs. Cohen. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"He'll let me look at his files?"

"Not bloody likely. You'll have to ask questions and hope he's cooperative."

"And if he's not?"

He shrugged. "We'll be forced to be creative. Now stop asking questions and get going."

I stood to leave. "I somehow thought it would all be more exciting than this."

"Welcome to the glamorous world of the private eye, kid. This is what it's really all about, drudge work behind a computer screen. Of course, maybe you'd rather take my place. I'm getting ready to go on a high speed chase down Route 50 while hanging out the window shooting wildly at the car behind me."

I shot him a dirty look and left him laughing at his desk.

I pushed open the tinted glass door leading into the lobby of The Delmarva Times office building. The Times was the region's largest local newspaper. The lobby was sparsely furnished, with just two chairs—one of which was occupied by a dark-haired guy tapping away on his phone. My eyes landed on an intercom button mounted on the wall, accompanied by a sign instructing visitors to press it to. So I did.

An elegant older woman came to greet me. Her bright blue eyes peered at me over half-moon glasses, and her silver bob contrasted strikingly with her perfectly tanned face. She wore a tailored blue blouse, gray herringbone skirt, and minimalist jewelry — professional and timeless. Her name tag read 'Rose Mitchell.'

"Hi, there. How can I help you?"

Her speaking voice and smile were quite pleasant. I decided she was the ideal receptionist.

I couldn't resist smiling back. "Hi, my name is Killian Kendall. I work for Novak Investigations."

"How nice." Her tone made it clear she'd never heard of us.

"We're working on the Cohen murder, and I was wondering if I could speak to the reporter who's been covering the case for the paper."

Her expression told me all I needed to know about the chances that would happen. I nearly turned and walked out.

"That would be William Walters. Why don't you wait right here while I go see if he can spare a few minutes. Do you have a card I can give him?"

I proudly handed her one of my brand new cards, and she disappeared through an inner door.

As soon as she was out of the room, the guy in the chair said, "He won't talk to you."

"Huh?" was my witty reply.

He glanced up from his phone, his eyes quickly looking me up and down, then stood with a brilliant smile that was all white teeth and dimples.

I hadn't paid him much attention when I'd entered, but I belatedly realized he was quite cute. Slim and about five foot ten, he had straight brown hair that he wore medium length and parted down the center. He'd made an effort to comb it back, but it had exerted its own will and flopped forward into his dark brown eyes. He pushed it back impatiently with a reflexive gesture.

"He won't talk to you. Walters is a notorious jerk."

"Oh. Well, I guess it was a long shot anyway." I shrugged awkwardly. Who was this guy?

"Did you say you're working for Novak Investigations? Does that mean you're a P.I.?"

"Something like that. I guess you could say I'm an apprentice P.I."

"That's awesome." I was surprised by his enthusiasm. "Our jobs aren't that different. We're both searching for the truth, just for different reasons."

"What is your job?" I asked.

For a second, he seemed surprised, but then he laughed. "Oh yeah, I guess that would help, huh? I'm Micah Gerber. I'm a reporter here."

"Oh. Nice to meet you."

"You too. Look, when Rose comes back and tells you Walters won't talk to you — because she will — meet me in the parking lot." Before I could even formulate a response, he was gone.

I was still processing our brief but confusing exchange when Rose reappeared.

"I'm sorry." Her expression was genuinely apologetic. "I'm afraid Mr. Walters is a little...er...tied up at the moment and can't talk to you."

"Oh. Is there a better time to talk to him? I can come back."

"No. I don't think there is ever a good time to talk to Mr. Walters." She carefully kept her face without expression.

"Oh, okay. Well, thanks for asking."

"I'm sorry," she apologized again as I turned to leave.

I gave her a reassuring smile. "It's not your fault."

True to his word, Micah was waiting for me outside. He fell into step next to me as I walked to my car.

"He wouldn't talk to you, huh?"

"Rose said he was too busy."

"Too busy, my ass. He's just a self-important, egotistical, over-inflated blowhard who won't lower himself to talk to anyone except to cut them down."

"I take it you two don't get along," I commented wryly.

"Does it show?" he asked in mock concern.

"Just a bit."

"Only a bit? I'll have to use stronger language next time."

I laughed. "So, is this just general dislike, or is there a personal reason behind your carefully hidden animosity?"

"Sheesh, and I thought reporters were nosy."

I blushed. "You're right, that was nosy. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"I was just kidding. It's okay. I'm the low guy on the totem pole around here — new to the job, fresh out of journalism school, and fairly young. You could say I'm cutting my teeth in this position, or you could if I had any teeth, which so far I don't. Not really. And mostly because of Walters."

I leaned against my car. "What do you mean?"

"Walters has been here forever. I think he probably reported Adam and Eve's exile from Eden. He's survived about a half dozen different editors, which gives him some sort of seniority. He has a strong dislike for anyone under thirty and especially young guys right out of college." He started pacing as he became more and more worked up. "He always says, 'Just because you went to some fancy-schmancy school doesn't make you a reporter. It has to be born in you, and, trust me, it's not in you.' He makes sure I get the shittiest assignments. I never have a chance at anything good, so I can't prove myself."

"That must be frustrating," I sympathized.

"You'd better believe it. Meanwhile, the guy's a hack. If he was actually any good, he would have moved to a bigger paper long ago. He's just a big fish in a small pond. Just once I'd like to scoop him, show everyone that I really am a good journalist."

"And humiliate him in the process?"

"Icing on the cake, my friend, icing on the cake," he replied with a cheeky grin. He joined me against the car.

I couldn't help but like my talkative new acquaintance. He was charming, confident, and funny — not to mention drop-dead gorgeous. The only thing I couldn't figure out was what he wanted from me.

"So, why did you ask me to meet you in the parking lot?"

His smile faded as he suddenly became serious. "I have a proposal."

I batted my eyes. "But we've only just met!"

He snorted. "Not that kind of proposal. At least, not yet. What I'm suggesting is more of a...mutually beneficial arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?" I asked, suddenly wary.

"I'll get you the information you need. I'll wait until Walters leaves for the day and go through his files. I know where he keeps the ones for his active stories. They're locked up, of course, but I also know where he keeps his spare key. I'll make copies of the relevant info and lock everything back up just the way I found it. He'll never know."

"Uh huh, and what do you get out of it? You said it was mutually beneficial."

"You mean besides the satisfaction of knowing I screwed Walters over?"

"Yes, besides that. I get the feeling that there's a rather big 'but' coming."

He spun around, twisting to look at his posterior. "Looks fine to me."

I tended to agree, but thought it best not to say so.

"Okay, okay, seriously," he went on. "It's simple, really. You get the better end of the deal."

"Why do I feel like you're trying to sell me a used car?"

"No, it's true! All I want is information. I want to be in on the rest of the investigation."

"What?"

"I want to be kept abreast of things, maybe even be involved, although that isn't a deal breaker."

"I dunno..." I wasn't sure how Novak would feel about a deal like that.

"Come on. These kinds of arrangements are made all the time. It's an exchange of information, a give and take, cooperation. How else are you going to get what you need?"

I hesitated.

"What do you have to lose?"

"Well..."

He sensed my weakening and pounced. "Just tell me what you need to know, and I'll hand it to you on a platter."

I sighed, and he grinned triumphantly. He knew he'd won.

"Okay. I need to know everything there is about Rachel Cohen, Ira Cohen's wife and Caleb Cohen's mother. Specifically, what her maiden name was, when she was last known to be alive, if anyone has any idea where she is — that sort of thing."

He frowned. "Hold on, I thought she was dead." Obviously, he'd been keeping up with the case.

"If she is, then we need some proof of it: death notice, obituary, whatever. Vital Statistics has no record of her death, so we're thinking she still might be alive."

"Really? Fascinating. I can't believe no one fact checked that. If she's alive, where's she been all this time? And why did she leave in the first place?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. We know Ira Cohen was abusive to Caleb, so it's possible that he abused her, too, and she ran to escape it."

"And left her kid behind?"

I shrugged.

"Okay..." He sounded a little less enthusiastic than he had before. Maybe the seriousness of the situation was starting to sink in. "I'll see what I can come up with. It may take me a while to go through his files. You might have to give me a few days."

"Why don't I give you my number, and you can call me when you have something?"

He perked up. "I like that plan."

He handed me his phone and I added my name and number, then handed it back. He glanced down at the screen, then looked back up with a charming — and disarming — smile. "So, Killian, is this your personal or work number?"

My heart skipped a beat as I tried to figure out whether he was flirting with me or if that was just his personality. "Work," I finally managed.

He pretended to pout. "Your cell would be even better, though, right?"

He was definitely flirting. He held the phone out again while giving me puppy dog eyes.

I hesitated for a second, then took it and added my cell number.

He smiled again as I returned his phone, and my knees felt a little weak.

"Perfect. I'll text you right now so you have my number," he said with a little wink as he tapped away at his screen.

"Uh, thanks," I said, brilliantly.

He glanced up. "My pleasure. I look forward to working with you."

I nodded as my phone buzzed in my pocket, then turned to open my car door.

"Talk to you soon, Killian," he called, backing away.

"Yeah, soon," I repeated.

I dropped into the driver's seat and took a deep breath. I realized I was looking forward to his call — and not just because of the case.

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