All Lost Things
Book 3 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 11
Micah Gerber was still on my mind as I drove home from work that afternoon. I was fairly certain he'd been flirting with me, but part of me wondered if I was just reading too much into it. Maybe he was just using me to get a scoop. Or maybe he wanted a scoop of me.
Those thoughts were still running through my head as I pulled into the driveway and turned off my car.
I opened the front door of the house only to be greeted by an exuberant Steve, who grabbed me in a bear hug and swung me around like I weighed nothing.
"Uh...good to see you too," I wheezed.
He laughed and sat me down. "They accepted my offer! You're looking at the proud owner of one of the finest examples of 19th century architecture in the state!"
"That's great! Congratulations, Steve."
"Don't go anywhere! We're going out to celebrate. Adam, Kane, Killian's home. Let's go."
Kane came clattering down the stairs as Adam padded into the hallway barefoot and wearing his working glasses. "I'm in the middle of a project that I need to finish tonight. You guys go on without me."
Steve frowned. "Adam, it's a celebration dinner. It won't be much of a celebration without you. I'd really like you to come. I promise not to keep you out late. The job can wait a couple of hours, can't it?"
"Fine," Adam said with a sigh. "Let me get my shoes on."
We drove to the Cactus Café, a Mexican restaurant that was a favorite of ours. It was an unpretentious, intimate place with great food, live music, and the cheesiest decorations you can imagine. Purple and pink sequined sombreros hung on the brightly painted walls between papier-mâché burros and strings of plastic chili pepper lights. We went there often enough that the waitresses knew us by sight, and when they heard we were celebrating, they brought us a round of sangria on the house.
Steve rattled on excitedly about his new acquisition as we munched tortilla chips and homemade salsa while waiting for our entrées. Adam was noticeably quiet. Kane and I tried to cover for his conversational absence by being overly effusive, but it was still painfully obvious. Steve's enthusiasm began to flag as the tension built. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
"You know, Adam, you could at least pretend to be a little excited for Steve."
Adam slowly raised his eyes to mine, his face completely expressionless and his gaze somewhat bleary. I realized the pitcher of sangria was almost empty, as was Adam's glass. I hadn't touched the stuff, and Steve's glass was still nearly full. Had Adam drunk the whole thing that quickly?
"Killian, it's okay," Steve interjected quickly.
"No, it's not okay," I argued. "This is really important to you, and he's barely said two words all night. He didn't even want to come. I'd like to know what his problem is."
"My problem?" Adam asked carefully. Fueled by alcohol and rising frustration, a fire was starting to glow in his eyes.
"Yes. What exactly is your problem?"
"You mean besides the fact that you're off investigating a violent murder?"
"This isn't about me or my job. Tonight's supposed to be about Steve."
"Yes. Let's throw a party for Steve and his dream home."
Steve frowned. "Maybe this was a mistake."
"For God's sake," I snapped, "what's wrong with you? This is his dream!"
"Yes, this is his dream. His dream! Not mine. Yet he's expecting me to just drop my life, move out of my home, give up my business, and for what? For what?" he shouted, and several people cast nervous looks our way. The guitar player continued strumming obliviously.
Steve looked as if he had been slapped. "I thought when I moved in with you that we would share our lives. I thought it was our house, our dreams. I've never expected you to give up anything. Maybe it would be better if you just stayed in your house."
"Maybe it would," Adam snarled.
Kane's eyes were darting back and forth nervously, and I was suddenly regretting that I opened the floodgate. "Hey, guys, maybe you should calm down before you say something you'll regret."
"I will not calm down, damn it!" Adam growled through gritted teeth. "I'm sick and fucking tired of being calm while my life spirals out of control. I don't feel calm, and I'll be damned if I'm going to pretend to be calm just to keep from embarrassing you."
He stood up abruptly, shoving the table back and toppling his chair. Steve's water tipped over, sending a cascade of cold liquid into his lap, making him leap to his feet as well. This time even the guitarist took notice and stopped playing, an astonished look on his face.
The owner of the restaurant, a barrel-chested, animated little man, came rushing from the back as Adam stormed out of the restaurant. He approached our table with a concerned expression and fluttering hands. "Is everything okay?"
"Apparently not." Steve pulled his wallet out and tossed a wad of cash onto the table. "That should cover everything. Sorry for the disturbance." He followed Adam out the door.
"I'm so sorry," I mumbled, my face hot with embarrassment as I rushed to make my exit, Kane close on my heels.
Adam was already in the car by the time we got outside. Steve was staring across the parking lot, his jaw tight and his hands clenched at his side. I laid a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" He shook his head angrily and turned to go back inside. "Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm calling a cab," he muttered darkly.
I watched him walk inside, then ran across the parking lot to the car, which Adam had idling. I tapped on the window, and he lowered it without looking at me.
"Maybe you shouldn't drive," I started.
"Get in."
"No. I think you've had too much to drink. Let me drive."
"I'm fine. Get in."
"I'm not getting in unless you let me drive."
"Fine. You can come home with Steve, then. Kane, are you getting in?"
Kane gave me a panicked look, and I shook my head no. "He'll come with me and Steve," I said firmly.
"Fine," Adam seethed. He put the window up and threw the car into reverse. I jumped back and watched in tight-lipped frustration.
"What just happened?" Kane asked, his voice a little shaky.
"Hell if I know."
We were still standing in the parking lot when Steve came back out. He looked surprised to find us there. "What are you guys doing here? Where's Adam?"
"He, uh, left us." Steve stared at me in disbelief. "I told him to let me drive since he'd been drinking and he refused."
Steve sighed and threw an arm around each of our shoulders. "We can share a cab."
The ride back to the house was very quiet. There wasn't much to say, and Steve seemed lost in his own thoughts. When we arrived at the house, Kane and I started for the door, but I realized Steve wasn't following us. I turned to find him walking slowly towards his truck.
"Aren't you coming in?"
He shook his head. "I think we all need some time to cool off."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm not sure yet. A hotel. A friend's. Don't worry about it."
"Steve...I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I should have just kept my big mouth shut."
He shrugged. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe it's about time we got everything out in the open."
I bit my lip. "Yeah, but what's going to happen now?"
He gave me an unconvincing smile. "Don't worry about it, Kill. Things will work out for the best. You just have to believe that."
I nodded and watched while he got into his vehicle and left. With a sigh, I turned and went inside. Adam had shut himself in his bedroom, and I decided it would be best for both of us if I just left him alone.
I thought about the fight long into the night, wondering if Adam and Steve would break up or if they would somehow find a way to fix things. I also thought about Asher and me and wondered if we had done all we could to salvage our relationship. Had we given up too easily? I finally drifted off sometime in the wee hours of the morning.
The alarm went off only a few hours later, but I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I was moody all morning at work — snapping at telephone solicitors and generally taking my frustrations out on the office equipment.
Luckily, a distraction came along before I could permanently damage the printer. The phone rang mid-morning, and I snatched it up with a growled greeting.
"I've got something for you," a male voice said before I'd even finished my hello.
The voice was familiar, but it took me a few moments to place it. "Micah?"
"Yeah. Can you meet me today at the Plaza Café around twelve?"
"Noon?"
"No, midnight." He laughed. "Of course, noon. It's my lunch break. I thought we could talk while we ate. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, no problem."
"Great, then it's a date."
"A date?"
"It's just an expression, Killian. In the words of the late, great, literary genius Douglas Adams, 'Don't panic.' See you at twelve...p.m."
Way to go, Killian, I thought as I replaced the phone in its cradle. Keep this up and he's going to think you're a total dork. Then I wondered why I cared what he thought of me.
"Who was that?" Novak asked as he emerged from his inner sanctum with a stack of paperwork.
"A possible source."
"Oh my, a source. How very cloak and dagger. Are you meeting him in a dark parking garage at midnight?"
I shot him a dirty look. "No. I'm meeting him at the Plaza Café at noon."
"And what exactly is he a source of, pray tell?"
"I'm doing what you told me to do, following up on the Rachel Cohen angle."
"The Rachel Cohen angle?" He laughed. "You've been reading too many detective novels."
"Sure, pick on Killian. That seems to be the favorite pastime around here. Besides, you're the one who keeps giving me mystery books to read."
"Hey, it's all in good fun, kid. Don't get testy on me now. I wouldn't tease you if I didn't think you knew I was only kidding."
"I know. Don't mind me. I didn't sleep much last night and I have a lot on my mind."
"If this case is starting to get to you, we'll back off. You can't let yourself get too caught up in things. It's not worth it. We're not even getting paid."
"It's not just the case, it's personal stuff, too. Don't worry, I'll be fine."
"Don't overdo it, kid. If you ever need to talk about anything, I'm here for you."
"Thanks, Novak."
He went back into his office, ruffling my hair as he went. I realized how fond I was becoming of him. He was more than just a boss or mentor, he was fast becoming a trusted friend.
I arrived downtown a little early. For reasons I chose not to think about, I was nervous about seeing Micah again, so I'd left the office much earlier than I needed to. With about fifteen minutes to kill, I decided to pop into Avant Garde, an art gallery on the plaza that was owned by an acquaintance named Nikki Avanti. My friend Will worked there as well, so maybe I'd get to see both of them.
Nikki was busy with a customer when I got there. Haunting flute music was wafted lazily through the air, the perfect complement to the prominent display of Indigenous pottery that seemed to be the current theme.
As usual, Nikki looked as much like a work of art as the actual paintings and sculptures on display. I don't think I had ever seen her look the same twice. The last time, her hair had been short, spiky, and neon pink. Currently, it was long and black with a rainbow of colors mixed in throughout. She wore a brightly colored, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse over faded, form fitting jeans that laced up in the front with a leather tie. Her black horn-rimmed glasses, silver feather-shaped earrings, and leather sandals completed the ensemble. She looked stunning.
She finished with the customer, who left carrying a large clay pot decorated with a geometric design, and turned to me with a pleasant, generic smile. It took her a second to recognize me.
"Killian!"
"Hi, Nikki."
"Will's off today," she said.
"That's okay. I just stopped by on a whim." I glanced around dramatically. "Where's Dante?" Nikki's brother, and co-owner of the gallery, was not one of my favorite people.
She rolled her eyes. "My dear brother is putzing around Europe. Officially, he's supposed to be scouting art for the gallery, but he's been gone an awfully long time. Not that I'm complaining."
I laughed and gestured towards the display. "It looks like you've gone native in his absence."
"Don't you just love this month's exhibit? I'm trying to change it once a month, to keep things fresh. I have to admit, this is my favorite one so far this year, although I admit I'm biased. Everything was done by a dear friend of mine, Lily Snyder. She's a local Indigenous woman, and just incredibly talented. I've been after her for years to do a show and she finally agreed. Of course, I had to sleep with her to get her to do it." She let out a loud laugh.
My eyes widened. "I thought you had a boyfriend."
"Sam? He's ancient history. Decided he wanted to get married and have a big family. Ha! Can you imagine me with kids?"
"And now you're seeing..."
"Lily, yeah. Although, it's not all that serious. Maybe. Who knows?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to make assumptions. I didn't know you were...bi?"
"I go where my heart — and libido — take me. Usually, it's to a guy, but occasionally it's a gal. When it's a woman, she's almost always a strong, independent woman like Lily. Not exactly the best type for a long-term relationship, but then I'm not really built for long-term relationships."
"Oh." I sounded a little lost, even to myself.
"So, are you still with that hot little package? What was his name? Asher?"
"No. We, uh, broke up."
"Oops, sore spot. Sorry. Well, hey, if you're available, Lily has this absolutely beautiful nephew—"
"I'm not exactly in the market," I quickly interrupted.
"Ah, one of those breakups, huh? My advice is just move on, sweetie. Don't dwell in the past. Dive right into the deep end and get yourself a new beau, even if he's just a rebound guy."
"Um, thanks." I started edging towards the door. I'd forgotten what a force of nature Nikki could be. "I'd better get going. I'm supposed to be meeting someone at..." I glanced down at my watch and gasped. "Holy shit! I'm late. I gotta go! It was good to see you again, Nikki."
"You too, Killian. Bye bye."
"Tell Will I said hi!" I yelled as I ran out the door.
I dashed out the door and ran down the plaza to the café. Micah was waiting for me, seated at a table inside in the air conditioning.
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming." He flashed me his most charming smile as I slid into the seat across from him. "Either that, or you were still mixed up on that whole a.m./p.m. thing."
I laughed, slightly out of breath from my run. "Sorry, I was talking to someone and I guess I lost track of the time. She's one of those people who never runs out of things to say."
"It's all good. Is she your girlfriend?"
"Huh?"
"Were you talking to your girlfriend?"
"Oh. No. I'm...I mean, I'm...I'm single."
"Ah," he said simply, but the sparkle in his eye spoke volumes. I realized that was what he had been fishing for to begin with.
"So, what did you find out?" I asked.. switching gears
"Not so fast. Let's order first. I was waiting for you." He signaled a waitress over. While he ordered, I frantically scanned the menu, then panic ordered the first thing that sounded good. Can't really go wrong with a reuben, right?
After she left, he turned to business.
"All right, here's what I have."
He produced a manila folder and flipped it open, sliding it across the table to me. The top sheet had the name Rachel Cohen printed in bold type, followed by a list of names and contact information.
"You were right," he said. "There were no death notices for Rachel Cohen, and there would have been, even if the family couldn't afford a full obit. I did manage to find her maiden name in the marriage records. It was Gill. Both her parents were deceased at the time of the wedding, so that's a dead end. The marriage announcement was placed by an aunt, and I have her name and address, and the names and address of Ira Cohen's parents."
"This is great!"
"Hang on, I'm not finished yet. Take a look at the next page."
I did. At the top was a name and address — a familiar name. "Marco Martino?" I read aloud.
"You know him?"
"Yeah. I went to school with him. He had a crush on my brother."
Micah raised an eyebrow. "Walters interviewed him for an article. He claimed to be good friends with the Cohen kid."
I frowned. "That's news to me. How good a friend?"
Micah shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't there for the interview, and Walters just had a few quotes scribbled down with the kid's name and 'good friend'. The quotes were pretty generic."
"You really came through for us, Micah. This is way more than I expected."
He flashed me a satisfied smile. "Well then, maybe you could repay me by going out with me sometime — dinner, a movie, whatever you like."
My heart began to pound, and I knew I had to be blushing furiously. I opened my mouth to speak, but he hurried on.
"Hey, I'm sorry if I read that wrong. I thought maybe I detected some interest, but you know, if I'm wrong..."
My face felt as if it might burst into flames. I took a deep breath. "No, uh, you're not wrong."
Micah broke into a relieved grin. "Whew. You had me worried there for a second. So you are gay, then?"
"Yes, I am. I'm just not used to people reading me so easily."
"Hey, you know...gaydar."
My breath caught in my throat as I remembered the first time I'd heard someone use the term gaydar. It had been Seth.
"You okay?" There was concern in Micah's voice.
"What? Oh. Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."
"Hey, look, you don't have to give me an answer right now. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You have my number, so if you feel like doing something sometime, call me."
"Okay," I mumbled, still blushing.
Our food arrived at that moment, sparing us from what promised to be a very awkward moment. While we ate — or rather while he ate and I picked at my food — he kept the conversation light. We discussed our favorite movies and music, and discovered we had similar tastes.
As I became less flustered, I realized I was enjoying myself. I was actually disappointed when the waitress dropped off our check. I reached for it, but Micah beat me to it.
"I've got it," he said.
"I can pay. You're doing me a favor, after all."
"Yeah, but I was the one who suggested lunch."
"But—"
"I've got it." The firmness in his voice convinced me to give up.
"Thank you."
He smiled warmly and my heart skipped a beat. "My pleasure."
When the waitress returned with his credit card, we stood up, and he held out his hand for me to shake. The contact lasted a little longer than it had to.
"Micah, thanks again for all the information — and for lunch."
"You're welcome. It was kind of exciting. I felt like a spy. Just don't forget that you owe me now." He paused, then his eyes widened. "I mean for the case, not the date. No pressure there. I just want the first shot at the story when it breaks."
"If it breaks."
"It will."
"You seem pretty sure."
"Call it reporter's intuition."
I laughed. "See ya, Micah."
"Bye, Killian. Call me."
"I will," I replied automatically.
He grinned. "Good. I'm going to hold you to that." He spun around and jogged off down the plaza.
I watched him go, taking in his broad shoulders, slim waist, and surprisingly nice butt, before snapping myself out of it. What was I getting myself into?
Armed with our new information, courtesy of Micah, Novak and I didn't waste any time getting to work. The very next morning we paid a visit to Samuel and Ruth Cohen, Caleb's paternal grandparents.
They were a dignified couple in their late sixties, residing in a modest yet well-maintained one-story house in a middle-class neighborhood. Samuel was slightly stooped, with iron gray hair and a full beard that still had speckles of black peppered through it. Ruth was short and round, with a look that suggested she was usually jovial. That particular day, however, she and her husband were quite solemn. They seemed saddened and, I thought, somewhat embarrassed when they realized the reason for our visit. Even so, Mrs. Cohen brought us each a glass of iced tea and did her best to make us feel welcome.
"We can't help you," Mr. Cohen stated firmly once we were all seated in their living room. "We haven't spoken to Ira in years. We don't know anything about his life...or his death, for that matter."
"It was a difficult decision," Mrs. Cohen added, "but we thought it best at the time."
Her husband nodded. "We still think it was for the best, although I wish we could have done more for Caleb."
"You see," Mrs. Cohen explained, "Ira was a difficult child, very rebellious. He would have nothing to do with our religion or the family business. He was always in trouble and coming to us for help, but he never wanted to take responsibility for his actions. We aren't wealthy people. It couldn't go on, so we had to put a stop to it."
"Then he went and married that little tramp."
It was like watching a tennis match, the way they jumped back and forth in their conversation.
"She wasn't really a tramp, Shmueli," Mrs. Cohen said reproachfully, "Just...flighty."
He snorted. "She was flighty all right. She flew right out of the nest."
"You're talking about Rachel Cohen?" I clarified.
"Her last name was Gill before she married Ira," Mrs. Cohen said. "She wasn't a Jewish girl, you know, even with a name like Rachel. I think she was Catholic. Is that right, Sam?"
Mr. Cohen rolled his eyes. "What difference does it make what religion she was?"
"And you know for a fact that she left?" I interrupted.
"Oh, she left," he snapped. "That's for sure. Just took off without so much as a goodbye."
"And she left Caleb behind! Now I ask you, what kind of mother would do such a thing?" Mrs. Cohen clucked disapprovingly.
I jumped in again. "Do you know where she went when she left?"
Mrs. Cohen shook her head. "No idea. Never heard a word from her."
"But she did leave? She didn't die?"
"Die? No, she ran off. Now, she could've died since then, and I don't suppose we would know."
"When was the last time you saw Caleb?" Novak asked suddenly.
Everyone jumped slightly. It was the first time he had spoken since we'd arrived. I think the Cohens had almost forgotten he was there.
Mrs. Cohen looked slightly flustered at the question, as if she couldn't see how it fit into the line of questioning. I couldn't say I understood any better. She glanced at Mr. Cohen before answering, but his expression didn't change. "I suppose it's been years. He was a little thing."
"So he didn't come here after he ran away from the group home?"
"Oh, no," she said with sudden understanding. "But then he wouldn't, really. He hardly knows us."
"Have you been to see him since he was arrested for killing your son?"
Mrs. Cohen's eyes widened as she raised a hand to her mouth. Mr. Cohen sat forward in his chair, an angry expression on his face. "No! I didn't want to upset Ruth, but it was obvious the apple didn't fall far from the tree."
"Then you think he's guilty?"
"The police think so or they wouldn't have arrested him."
Novak stood up suddenly. "I think we're done here."
Mr. Cohen stood as well, still on the defensive. "I told you we couldn't tell you anything."
"On the contrary," Novak said, "we've learned a lot from our visit, Mr. Cohen."
"You have?"
"Yes, we have. Thank you, Mr. Cohen, Mrs. Cohen."
Mr. Cohen looked as if he wanted to say something more, but Mrs. Cohen, a good hostess to the end, quickly led us to the door.
"What was that all about?" I asked once we were in the car.
"I didn't like the smug bastards," Novak said as he pulled away from the curb. "They abandoned Caleb just as surely as his mother did, yet they sit in judgment of her."
I thought about our conversation for a minute. "It's scary how much confidence some people place in the police."
"Meaning you don't share that confidence?"
"Not really. The first time I was involved in a murder case, the police didn't even believe it was a homicide until I nearly got killed, too. The last time, they insisted it was an accident—right up until two more people died. So, no, based on my limited experience, I don't have much faith in the police."
I suddenly remembered that Novak was a retired cop and quickly added, "At least not the local ones. And isn't it supposed to be innocent until proven guilty? But everyone just assumes Caleb did it just because he was arrested."
"We live in an age of trial by media," Novak commented sourly. "Guilt or innocence is decided in the court of public opinion, and justice is for sale to the highest bidder."
I snorted. "We're a cynical pair."
"You're too young to be cynical. Then again, we are private investigators. We're supposed to be hard-boiled."
"I've always thought of myself as more sunny side up."
"Or over easy."
"Fried."
"Cracked."
We laughed.
"While we're out making calls, why don't we visit Rachel's aunt and see if she's available?" Novak suggested.
"Eggs-cellent idea."
"Enough with the egg jokes. What's her name again?"
"Omelette you guess."
He groaned and shot me a deadly look.
I flipped through my notebook. "Nola Vesper."
"Hmm. Sounds like a little old lady with white hair, who works in her garden while wearing a straw hat," Novak observed.
He couldn't have been more wrong. When we stopped in front of the address Micah had listed next to her name, we found a bright neon blue house, with orange shutters and a yellow door. A small army of garden gnomes of all shapes and sizes seemed to be holding a conference on her lawn.
We were still staring at the dwelling with a speechless mixture of horror and amazement when the chatelaine herself appeared in the doorway. She definitely wasn't a little old lady. At first glance, she didn't seem to be a day over forty. She had sharp black eyes and thick black hair that she wore in a long braid. She was decidedly top heavy, which was accentuated by her skin tight, tube top and Daisy Duke cut-off denim shorts.
"If you're here to sell me vacuums, I don't need anything that sucks," she said from her front steps as we climbed out of the car. "If you're here to sell me encyclopedias, I know everything I need to know. And if you're here to sell me Jesus, we've already met and we've agreed to keep our distance."
"We're not here to sell you anything," Novak answered with an amused smile.
"Then why are you here?"
"We're here to talk to you about your niece, Rachel Cohen."
A person's eyes can tell you so much about what they are thinking. Only the most experienced gamblers and the very best liars can keep their eyes from betraying their hand. I wondered which Nola Vesper was. Her expression didn't change in the slightest at the mention of her niece's name, not even a hint of surprise.
"What about her?" she asked.
"Do you know where she is?"
"I haven't seen Rachel in years. It must be ten, at least."
"When she walked out on Ira Cohen?"
"I suppose."
"And her son?"
"Sometimes you don't have a choice." She came slowly down the steps and walked lazily across the lawn towards us. "But then you wouldn't understand that. You're a man."
"An astute observation. You still haven't answered my question. Do you know where Rachel is now?"
"What possible reason could you have for needing to know that? Whatever has happened here has nothing to do with her."
"You don't know that any more than we do."
"I know my niece — which is more than you can say — and I know she did what she had to do to survive."
"And you helped her."
The dark eyes appraised Novak. "What if I did?"
"Then you would know where she is."
"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I'm sure as hell not going to tell you."
"You don't have to tell me," Novak agreed obligingly. "But if I were to get the police involved, tell them that Rachel is alive and that she's a likely suspect in the murder of her husband, you would have to tell them."
"I'll deal with that when it happens. In the meantime, I don't have to tell you shit, and I want you off my property."
Novak stood a moment facing her, then turned suddenly and motioned me into the car.
"And don't come back!" she yelled.
"Well, that was a waste of time," I griped as we pulled away. "We didn't learn anything."
"On the contrary, we learned quite a bit from Ms. Vesper."
"We did?"
"Yep. For instance, before now we weren't certain that Rachel was still alive. It was a strong assumption, but that was all. Now we know for sure that she's out there somewhere. We just have to find her."
Back at the office, Novak went to work tracking down Rachel Cohen. He said it would involve a lot of time consuming and tedious work, most of it on the phone and computer. We decided that I would make better use of my time by talking to Marco.
I found his address and drove to his house, a two-story Cape Cod. The lawn was freshly mown, but the hedges looked as if they were overdue for a trim. I was happily surprised when Marco answered my knock. He seemed confused to find me on his doorstep.
"Killian?"
"Hey, Marco. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Maybe." He fluttered his eyelashes, and I noticed he was wearing makeup. Marco had a reputation around school as a major drama queen. If there was a trend in clothing or hairstyle, Marco followed it. I was pretty sure the makeup was a new touch, though. "Depends what you want to talk about."
"I want to talk about Caleb Cohen."
The corners of Marco's pouty lips pulled down into a frown as his bottom lip poked out even further. "That's no fun. I was hoping you were here to ask me out."
"I thought you had a boyfriend."
He rolled his eyes. "So did I. Why do you want to talk about Caleb, anyway?"
"I'm working for a private investigator. We're looking into the murder."
Marco's eyes widened. "Wow. That's so...sexy!"
I fought back a sigh. "It's really not. Trust me. Can you just answer a few questions? It would be helpful."
He went back to pouting. "I guess. Come on in."
I followed him into a well decorated living room where he perched daintily on the edge of a wingback chair and crossed his legs. I sat on the couch facing him. For a second, I thought the soft, overstuffed cushions would swallow me whole, but I managed to fight my way back out. I felt at a distinct disadvantage, since I had to look up to make eye contact with Marco. In an attempt to regain some sense of authority, I stood.
"So, how did you know Caleb?" I asked, trying to ignore the smirk on Marco's face.
He arched one slightly overly plucked eyebrow. "The same way you did. We went to school together and he was in the Rainbow Alliance."
"And that's it?" He shrugged. Not exactly a definitive answer. "You told a reporter that you were good friends."
"I may have exaggerated slightly." He looked away, feigning boredom.
"Why would you do that?"
He shrugged, which for him involved a loose, rolling motion. "Maybe I just wanted to see my name in the paper."
His answer was almost shallow enough for me to buy it, but the way he refused to look at me made me suspect he was hiding something.
I decided to call his bluff. "You're lying."
His look of injured innocence was so phony I almost laughed out loud. When he saw my amused expression, he uncrossed his legs and flopped back in his chair in a huff.
"Fine," he snapped. "Maybe I did know him fairly well."
"How well?"
He sighed dramatically. "Does it really matter?"
"How well?"
"He was my so-called boyfriend, okay? Happy now? I dated an ax murderer." He buried his face in his hands.
I waited until he peeked out from between his fingers. "You dated Caleb Cohen?"
He seemed disappointed by my lack of response to his theatrics. "For like a month."
"Was he the boyfriend you talked about at Rainbow Alliance?"
"Yes. He didn't want anyone to know we were dating. He said he wasn't ready to come out."
"Then why did he start attending the meetings?"
"I talked him into coming. I told him we didn't have to tell anyone we were dating, and he didn't have to come out if he didn't want to. After all, Kane is straight — so he says, anyway."
It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Kane is straight. And it's kind of disrespectful of you to constantly question that. Not to mention that it's technically sexual harassment to keep hitting on him."
He narrowed his eyes. "Damn, bitch. Did you come here just to read me?"
"No, sorry. That was out of line. I mean, it's all true and you should think about it, but you're right. That's not why I'm here. I'm here about Caleb. Do you know why he didn't want anyone to know he's gay?"
"He said his dad was really homophobic and would probably kill him if he knew. I'd seen the bruises he said his dad gave him, so I figured it was a possibility. Better to be safe than sorry."
"Did you ever meet his dad?"
"Only once, but that was enough. I went to pick Caleb up for a movie. Caleb tried to get out to the car without being noticed, but his dad followed him to the door. The asshole was drunk and yelling stuff the whole time. I'm pretty sure he called me a faggot. Caleb was mortified."
"You said you and Caleb dated about a month. That would mean you broke up before the murder."
"Yes. We broke up before school even let out."
"Why'd you break up?"
"At the time, I thought maybe he just wasn't ready to have a boyfriend, but the next thing I knew, he was up Asher's ass every second of the day." He smirked again. "Not literally, of course — at least as far as I know."
I ignored that last crack. "So you think he left you for Asher?"
That wiped the smile off his face. "More or less."
"How'd that make you feel?"
He frowned. "So you're my shrink now? How do you think it made me feel? Like shit. First, he wouldn't even tell anyone we were dating, then, he dropped me for another guy and made a big production out of the fact that they were together."
"Did you ever have sex with him?"
Marco's eyebrows flew up. "Isn't that a little personal?"
"I'm not prying. I have a reason for asking."
He shrugged. "We fooled around."
"Was it ever in the barn behind his house?"
His disgusted expression made it seem as if I'd asked if he had sex with a barnyard animal instead of in a barn.
"Ew. No. I told you, I only went to his house once." He paused. "Well, actually, I was there a second time. Right after he broke up with me, I decided to try to talk to him. I drove out one evening, but when I got there, no one answered my knock. I was about to leave when I saw someone walking across the field towards the house, so I decided to wait to see if it was Caleb. When he got closer, I realized it wasn't. I started to just go, but then the guy kind of went towards the barn and disappeared from my sight. I waited a few more minutes, but didn't see anyone else. Then I got kind of spooked and went home."
"Do you think he went into the barn?"
"Probably. Either that or he vanished into thin air."
"Did you recognize the guy?"
"Yes. He went to our school."
I feared I already knew the answer and might not want to hear it, but I had to ask anyway. "Who was it?"
I braced myself for him to say Asher.
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